


Keeping Your Guard Up

by Quixoticity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boss Derek Hale, Boys Kissing, Broody Derek Hale, F/M, Falling In Love, Like really a lot of swearing, M/M, POV Derek Hale, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Bromance, Security Guard Derek Hale, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Swearing, Uniforms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-30 14:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12110820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quixoticity/pseuds/Quixoticity
Summary: Derek is head of a security company.Stiles is his newest recruit.It's pretty clear that Stiles is the worst security guard in the history of ever - but not everything is as it seems.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> August into September has been so insanely busy that my head is full of ten million useless things and I have mad writer's block, so I decided just to sit and write whatever my brain wanted to. This happened. 
> 
> I... don't even know. 
> 
> Thanks to any insane/tolerant/insanely tolerant people that manage to make sense of the product of my sleep-deprived mind!

‘Is everyone finally here?’ Derek looks around the break room sternly. His team are spread out around the small formica table that sits in the middle of the small, shabby kitchen, enjoying the last few minutes of respite before their shift begins.

‘Yeah, boss.’ Boyd leans back in his chair and bites crisply into an apple, crunching noisily on the mouthful before offering the fruit to Erica, who accepts it with an adoring smile and blows him a kiss. Derek barely manages to contain his eye-roll. 

It’s nice that Boyd and Erica love each other and all, it’s fucking _great_ for them, but he wishes they’d tone it down at work. He happened to mention it once or twice, just in passing, to Laura, who had smirked and levied sweet-sharp slander at him, words like ‘jealous’ and ‘lonely’ and ‘bitter’, all in an insufferable sing-songy voice, but it’s not that. It’s definitely not _that._

He’s happy his best friend from school has found love, happy that it seems to be such a perfect match. It’s just that Derek’s never really understood public displays of affection. Maybe he’d indulged a little, in his carefree teenage years, but since then he’s never been with anyone who incited in him such passion that he couldn’t contain it until a more appropriate time and place. Unlike Boyd and Erica who are inappropriate all over the goddamn place all of the goddamn time. He puts up with it because they’re his friends, but more importantly, they’re goddamn good at their jobs.

‘Uh, don’t the new guys start today?’ Isaac offers from his perch on the kitchen counter-top, fingertips idly futzing with the collar of his regulation black shirt, as they always do for the first few minutes after he's removed the scarf he wears like a security blanket.

Derek huffs in annoyance. ‘Right. Damn it, I forgot. Shouldn’t they be here by now?’ 

No-one’s even radioed him to request that he collect his two new charges from the front desk, so they’re really cutting it fine if they want to be on time for their first shift. 

Boyd shrugs. ‘Maybe they’ve blown us off. Gone and found real jobs where they don’t have to chase away assholes who are trying to drunkenly use the doorways as toilets every night.’ 

‘Then I guess you’ll be on Drunken Urinating Idiot duty all by yourself tonight Boyd, you lucky, lucky bastard.’ Derek smiles wickedly at the slump of Boyd’s shoulders and the accompanying groan of despair. 

‘Ooh does that mean I can man the security cameras?’ Isaac leans forward earnestly. 

‘Sure thing,’ Derek replies, earning himself a sunny smile. Isaac is the newest recruit to Hale Security Solutions, and has proved to be a very capable addition to their small team. He’s eager to please, reliable and attentive, but with a steely core that means he doesn’t take any shit from anyone posing a potential threat. Erica and Boyd are a force to be reckoned with, razor sharp, fast and strong.

Jackson, Danny, Ethan and Aiden make up a formidable sub-team, currently rostered on for day shifts this month. They're supervised by Lydia, who does Accounting and Important Paperwork and General Terror, and is better at all of those things than anyone Derek has ever known. Derek prefers to supervise the night team, partly because there’s less interaction with the site employees (and Derek’s really not all that keen on interacting with anyone, if he can possibly help it) but also because he knows if anything serious is going to go down, it’s going to be at night. 

They’re a tight-knit team, overall, and Derek’s fiercely proud of the company he’s built from the ground up. He pours almost all of his time and energy into working to make it the best it can be, with the rest of his time devoted to working out and staying at his physical peak. He’s the boss, so he feels he should be the fastest, the strongest. He would take every single hit for his team, if he could. Every twisted ankle, every drunken punch to the face, every shove into a wall that his team suffer through... Derek feels them all, pressed into his own skin, his own bones. He's not being melodramatic when he says that his attention, his _vigilance,_ could mean the difference between life and death; it's happened before, after all. It’s a lot of responsibility to carry on his shoulders, and he feels the weight of it keenly. 

They’ve got a regular gig doing security for a large warehouse that sits smack-bang in the middle of downtown Beacon Hills. It’s a hub for an import-export company, usually holding a variety of valuable goods for a few weeks at a time before it’s redistributed. It’s unusually exposed for a warehouse, which are usually set back on their own land, fenced off securely. This one is fenced in on two sides, leaving two sides flush to the road and more vulnerable to those who might be interested in the variety of treasures it holds inside. Or those who want to pee on it. Fucking dumbasses. 

Derek’s about to assign Erica her role for the night when the door slams open and two young guys clatter through it loudly. One is slightly taller and a little more slender than the other, with pale skin, and the other is lean but a little more built, with darker coloring. They’re both dressed in the slim-fitting, black uniform, the starkness of it making them look much younger than Derek expected, their faces filled with doe-like innocence that won’t last long in this line of work. 

‘Oh hey, wow. This must be it,’ the slender guy says to his friend, like somehow Derek and the team can’t hear him. He looks around the room at the team. ‘The guy from the front desk brought us to the end of the corridor and got all nervous about coming any further. Right before he ran away he told us to look for a quote-unquote, _bunch of angry people standing around glaring at each other like a group of rabid koalas._ And, uh, look at that. Here you are.’ His large, dark eyes settle on Derek, who feels, frankly, a little disgruntled at being compared to a famously ill-tempered marsupial.

He’s not the only one.

‘Rabid koalas? Fucking Greenberg! I hate that guy. _Koalas…’_ Erica protests, loudly, banging her fist on the table. ‘Motherfucker. We’re a lean, mean, security team! If anything we’re like a pack of, of… I don’t know, a pack of wolves. Something badass with bite.’ She flashes a toothy grin at the paler guy, who laughs back delightedly. 'I'm gonna wait until Greenberg falls asleep later and then!' She stands, like she's about to raise the troops in glorious rebellion. 'Then I'm going to steal his shoes! Who's with me?'

A slow, evil smile spreads over Boyd's face, and the new guys start to make unintelligible noises of assent (which include but are not limited to cat-calls, whistling and whooping) and really, has everyone forgotten they're here for work, not play?

Derek clears his throat loudly, which is enough to make the room fall silent. Erica sinks back down into her seat, doubtless shelving her plans for vengeance until later. Derek taps his foot on the linoleum floor. 

‘Are you done?’ He glares around the room. The two newbies nod silently, eyes wide. He crosses his arms over his chest. ‘Good. I’m Derek Hale, you can call me ‘Boss.’ I don’t care what either of your names are,’ he says loudly when he sees the slender guy open his mouth again. ‘All I care about is you guys getting your asses out there to do the job we’re being paid to do. Isaac, take Tweedle-Dumb to the security cam room with you,’ Derek says gesturing at the guy with floppy hair and earnest eyes.

Derek doesn’t miss the way Isaac brightens and sits up straighter, puffing out his chest, and is he… oh jeez, is he _flexing?_ He’s totally flexing. Dear god. Derek allows himself an impatient, internal huff before pointing at the pale guy. ‘Tweedle-Dumber, you’re gonna go with Boyd. You get to chase whichever weak-bladdered college boys make the poor life choice of mistaking our doorways for a bathroom. Congratulations.’ 

The kid’s mouth drops open and he gapes like a startled fish for all of three seconds, before his mouth rearranges itself into a wide grin. He brings his hands together and cracks his knuckles. ‘Awesome! I am so ready for this. I’m Stiles…’ He sticks out a hand to Boyd, who shakes it in quiet amusement. ‘Boyd, my man, let’s make security happen!’ 

Then Stiles does _finger guns._

Derek stares at Stiles in thinly veiled horror. 

‘What?’ Stiles asks him, eyes alight. ‘Every day’s an adventure, right?’ He winks at Derek, all long lashes and easy flirtation.

Derek frowns at him, hard, because he has definitely not had enough caffeinated beverages to cope with this. ‘Boyd and Isaac will fit you both up with radios,’ he says curtly, hoping to discourage the kid from further chatter. 

Stiles fist pumps, and Derek’s heart sinks. ‘Yes! Scott, bro, it’ll be just like when we were in middle school and had those walkie-talkies! Only this time the bad guys will be real, and I’ll get to whip out my flame-thrower and Boyd here will hit me with his best eighties synth music and I’ll go all Kurt Russell on their asses!’ He flails his hands around in what Derek supposes is meant to be an approximation of a martial arts move. 

Derek decides to have serious words with Lydia because if she seriously thought _this_ kid – this manic, gauche, garrulous kid who doesn’t seem capable of taking the job even slightly seriously - would be a good fit for the team then he needs to get her head checked, and fast. 

‘Whenever you use the radios, please bear in mind,’ Derek grits out, digging his fingers hard into the meat of his own forearms, ‘for the sake of my fragile sanity, that everyone can hear everyone else at all times, so feel free to just, you know… _shut up.’_

‘Sure thing, boss man,’ Stiles salutes him as Boyd wisely wrests him from the room. Derek can hear Stiles talking all the way down the corridor. 

Isaac hops down from the counter and makes his way to the door, seemingly too caught up in the other new kid – Scott – who follows at his heels like a lost duckling, to notice Derek is seething with irritation. 

Erica notices though, he can tell by the smirk. He’s not surprised; Erica notices everything. It’s why she’s a shit-hot security officer.

Scott smiles at him endearingly and manages to say ‘Thank you for the opportunity!’ before Isaac spirits him away to the depths of the security cam room where Derek suspects Isaac will spend more time watching Scott than the cams.

‘This is going to be _fun,’_ Erica says gleefully, once they’re out of earshot, pulling her long blonde hair up and into a neat bun with the elastic she keeps around her wrist. She always keeps an extra one there, even if her hair is already tied up. She says it's because she can restrain and castrate a man with it in under sixty seconds. Derek believes her.

‘No,’ Derek says drily. ‘It really isn’t.’

‘It’s only for the summer,’ Erica reminds him. ‘Try and look on the bright side.’

Derek gives her a flat look.

‘Oh right,’ she says. ‘Forgot you don’t really do that. Well, grit your teeth and power through, then.’

He nods stiffly, because that, he can do. 

He sets her up in the office with an aggressively huge pile of paperwork, most of which isn’t really terribly necessary, not feeling a hint of remorse as he leaves her to go on patrol around the building. 

It’s an enormous concrete shell, built around a skeleton of mezzanine levels and metal staircases. During the day, the warehouse hums with activity, a beehive of purpose and efficiency, staffed by people bustling around in neon high-visibility clothing and heavy boots, buzzing with the crackle of radios and forklift-truck engines. Derek likes it, but he likes it best at night, when the cavernous space is still and filled with the kind of comforting quiet that means everything is safe and undisturbed. 

Only now that peace is shattered, and pouring in through the cracks is an unstoppable flood of chatter from Stiles. As Derek starts to descend one of the metal industrial staircases from the mid-level, which houses most of the offices, down into the warehouse itself, he can hear the excitable cadence of his voice from all the way over on the other side of the vast space. A headache starts to thrum vaguely behind his eyes. 

His earpiece startles into life with a crackle, nearly making his foot miss the next nubbled, narrow tread, and then Stiles’ excitement is being piped _directly into his brain,_ god help him. He intensely regrets asking Boyd to get Stiles hooked up with a radio.

'I bet I could get them from eBay for like, _nothing,'_ Stiles is saying randomly, presumably having messed with the radio controls despite Boyd's explicit instructions not to.

‘Yeah, I don’t think the boss is going to sign off on gas masks,’ Boyd says drily over the airwaves. ‘Even if the smell of the employee locker room really does warrant them.’ 

Stiles hums thoughtfully. ‘He definitely wouldn’t go for a helicopter, then?’

There’s a brief, baffled pause. ‘A helicopter?’ Boyd asks. ‘Why would we need a helicopter?’

‘You know…’ Stiles says, his voice dropping into a lower register that sends an inexplicable shiver down Derek’s neck. ‘For _reasons.’_

‘The boss is one hundred per cent not going to let you buy a helicopter on the company credit card.’ 

‘Damn.’ Stiles sigh gusts heavily over the frequency, crackling into Derek’s ear. ‘This job just got way less interesting.’ 

Boyd’s voice comes in then, clearer and more purposeful. ‘Hey, boss man, Stiles is officially miked up, okay?’

Derek’s fingers find the button on his own radio. ‘Ten-four, Boyd. Now try to stop him from using it, ever.’

Boyd rumbles out a chuckle of agreement, but it’s overtaken by a spluttering laugh from Stiles. ‘Ten-four?’ He chokes out, wheezing with mirth. ‘You guys actually say that?’

Derek’s stomach twists in irritation. His job means everything to him, and this stupid kid thinks it’s some sort of joke. 

There’s a scuffle and a squawk which indicate that Boyd has shut Stiles up using whatever means necessary, and Derek has never loved Boyd more. 

‘Gonna circuit the perimenter, boss,’ Boyd says into the radio, and Derek murmurs his acknowledgement.

As he reaches the bottom of the staircase he clicks the button again to sever the connection, closing his eyes as he savors the cool quiet of the warehouse. 

He slips into the employee locker room, which, admittedly, does smell a _little_ of death, and pulls his phone out of his pocket to call Lydia. 

‘I take it you met your new recruits,’ Lydia says in lieu of a greeting, and Derek can hear the satisfaction in her voice even over the phone. 

‘What. The. Fuck.’ 

‘Oh come on Der, they’re great. They’re young, enthusiastic, willing to learn, and they only need jobs for the summer, which happens to be exactly as long as you need bodies for. Plus they’re willing to put up with the terrible hours and worse pay.’

‘I pay everyone fairly. And… they’re kids, Lydia. And Stiles is… _Stiles,’_ Derek protests. 

‘I think they’ll be good for the team,’ she insists. ‘And Stiles… Stiles will be good for you, if you give him a chance.’ 

Derek’s ears flash hot. ‘What?’

‘Give him a chance.’ Her tone makes it clear that it’s an order, not a request, which is ridiculous because Derek is the _boss,_ okay, Derek is _in charge._ He is the esteemed leader, the overlord, he’s not scared of teeny tiny Lydia. 

Which is why it’s entirely his own decision, absolutely not driven by fear of ferocious red-heads, when he huffs grumpily and says ‘Fine.’ 

She laughs lightly and hangs up the phone, leaving Derek staring at the screen for several seconds before he sighs heavily one last time and then pockets it, making his way back to the main floor to continue his patrol. 

Maybe she’s right, he muses, pulling out his flashlight to check into the dark recesses at the back of the building. Maybe he should be more open minded about giving the new guys a proper chance.

His earpiece crackles to life and his shoulders tense as he braces himself for action.

‘Hey, boss,’ Isaac says, ‘I’ve got Scott a radio. Do I give him the baton now, too?’ 

‘Ooh Isaac,’ comes Stiles’ voice, because of course he’s already learned how to use the technology that took Derek three days to master, ‘at least buy him a drink first, you saucy little buttercup!’

Derek raises his eyes skyward, grinding his teeth together. It’s going to be a _long_ summer, he thinks to himself, sourly.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, you very kind souls, for reading and commenting. 
> 
> As I said before, this fic is essentially the result of me skimming off the top of my crazy. Apparently my crazy likes to over-indulge in italics. Sorry about that.

Derek tries to give the new guys a chance, really he does, but over the next few days Stiles and Scott make it their business to become such colossal pains in his ass that it’s a constant struggle not to fire them. He describes trying to manage them, to an amused Lydia, as something of a cross between attempting to train toddlers in combat, and herding cats. 

Stiles seems to relish every opportunity to test Derek’s patience, responding to every order with a question or a quip, and Scott is more than happy to go along for the ride, albeit with sweet little apologies and sympathetic smiles to soothe the sting left by Stiles’ sharp-edged tongue. 

Derek decides the best way to handle Stiles is to largely ignore him in the hope that without the oxygen of attention, Stiles’ misbehaviour will wither and die away. Then maybe, just maybe, he could take the job seriously for five minutes instead of rabbiting on about 'bad guys' and humming the tune to 'Kung Fu Fighting' all the livelong day.

Ignoring Stiles turns out to be quite a test of Derek's self control.

On Tuesday Stiles reports for duty with his nails carefully painted black, which he declares to be a tactical decision. ‘I can sneak up on the bad guys, boss-man,’ he says, slow and loud like it’s super obvious. ‘They’ll never see me coming.’ 

‘Then why,’ Derek asks tightly, ‘are your thumbnails bright yellow?’

‘They’re high vis,’ Stiles explains in the same condescending tone. ‘It is a warehouse, after all. Safety first, Derek.’ 

Derek considers throttling him but decides, overall, that there would be too much paperwork. 

On Wednesday Stiles and Scott are left in the office together briefly right after the shift starts at six. Derek realises his mistake approximately five minutes later, just as he’s approaching the main loading bay to begin his first patrol. 

‘I’d like to request immediate assistance,’ comes Scott’s breathless voice over the radio. 

Derek immediately starts to run back in the direction of the office. ‘On my way, what is it?’ 

‘Tell him there’s an intruder!’ Stiles shouts in the background. 

Derek’s hand flies to his baton, heart picking up in his chest. He can taste the adrenaline that floods his system like quicksilver, metallic and bitter on his tongue. ‘An intruder?’ 

‘Yeah, through the window. It just flew right in!’ Scott replies, frantically.

Derek skids to a halt. ‘It what.’

‘The bird! It flew right in through the window and now it can’t get out. We’ve tried staying calm and reasoning with it, like you said we should in the event of an intruder, but it’s getting super aggressive!’ The genuine worry in Scott’s voice is the only reason Derek believes he’s not getting punk’d right now.

‘It’s an _asshole!’_ Stiles hisses furiously.

‘Shut up, it’ll hear you!’ Scott stage-whispers. ‘You need to stay professional, bro!’

There’s a scoff, and then the surreal sound of Stiles sternly instructing the bird to vacate the premises or else _consequences._

Derek rolls his eyes so hard it actually hurts.

‘Be gone, you winged malcontent!’ Stiles commands to the bird, who apparently remains resolutely unmoved. ‘Scott, it’s looking at me funny! Tell Derek to hurry up and _do something_ before it develops language skills and opposable thumbs and tries to tap into Skynet!’

‘Uh,’ says Scott uncertainly. 

‘Yeah, no, I heard,’ Derek replies flatly. 

He resumes walking to the office but at a much more leisurely pace, resisting the urge to facepalm when Stiles yells ‘Get back! You stay away from me, you flappy avian douchebag!’

‘If the bird kills either of you I expect the incident reports to be filed correctly,’ Erica chimes in over the radio, from outside the building where she's patrolling. ‘In date order, Scott. _Date. Order._ Or so help me I will kill you both myself. To _death.'_

Derek can’t believe this is his life. 

By the time he gets to the office, Stiles has taken cover behind a desk chair while Scott is crouching in front of the bird - a fairly large, handsomely speckled gray fellow with a white throat - who is perched on a bookcase, glaring malevolently at the top of Stiles’ head like it wants to kill him, or at least maim him a little. Derek doesn’t blame it.

‘Look, bird,’ Scott pleads, ‘he’s a good guy, really. He didn’t mean any of it, I swear, please don’t peck his head again!’ 

'It went for my eyes, Scotty! My _eyes!_ It's _strategizing!_ It's like bird Machiavelli!' Stiles ducks down lower, hands clutching at the chair like it's a riot shield.

Derek sighs deeply – something he does a lot around Scott and Stiles, he’s discovered – and grabs a hoody off the back of a nearby chair before calmly approaching the bird. He deftly throws the hoody over it before grabbing it gently, and releasing it out of the open window. He watches it fly away, and then closes the window, turning to find Scott and Stiles staring at him, wide-eyed. ‘Okay?’ He asks, a little smug. 

‘Yeah,’ Scott breathes, sounding satisfyingly impressed. 

Stiles’ jaw works soundlessly for a few seconds before he chokes out, ‘No! That’s _my_ fucking hoody!’ 

‘Eh,’ Derek shrugs, throwing the hoody at Stiles' head as he makes for the door to get back to his patrol. ‘It barely got pooped on at all. Big baby.’ 

*

After the bird incident, Derek always assigns Scott and Stiles to different partners, in an attempt to limit the amount of trouble they can get into. 

He ends up pairing Scott off with Erica more often than not, because he can’t deal with the lingering touches and endless eye-fucking between him and Isaac, and this is a professional operation, god-dammit, not a dating service. 

He can’t be sure, but he strongly suspects that together Erica and Stiles might end up opening up some sort of hitherto non-existent hell-mouth and unleashing the apocalypse. He realises it’s a _tiny_ bit far-fetched, but he literally just got done plastering the walls of his loft that week, so he’s not willing to risk it. 

Stiles, therefore, gets assigned to Boyd most nights, because Boyd is firm and fair and not easily distracted even though Stiles does his best to needle away at his usually impressive stoicism.

Derek prefers to work alone. 

The exception is when he gathers Stiles and Scott in the rec room for training sessions, which is its own special kind of hell because of All The Questions. 

It doesn’t matter whether Derek is trying to teach them about the team’s equipment, building-specific security measures, or basic self-defence, Stiles badgers him endlessly about what they’re doing and why they’re doing it and really wouldn’t it be better if they did it this way instead. Derek hates it so much his teeth _ache_ with it. 

When Erica suggests he loathes it because Stiles’ flippant proposals for improvement are usually right, he bans her from the cookie tin for a week and hooks up the sound system in the office to play Justin Bieber on a constant loop.

Nobody dares to make the suggestion again.

*

At the end of the week they have their usual staff debriefing. It’s been quiet, other than Scott and Stiles (mostly Stiles, if Derek’s honest), so it’s nice and straightforward. He outlines the plans for the following week, checks in with everybody, and finally asks if anyone has any other business. 

‘Yeah, actually.’ Erica says, sitting back in her chair to tug the elastic out of her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders in golden waves. ‘You need to do a risk assessment.’ 

Derek grabs his notepad and pen. ‘Okay. On what?’

‘Stiles.’

‘What?’ Stiles’ wide mouth falls open in outrage. ‘Why me?’

Erica looks at him, straight-faced. ‘You’re a danger to yourself and others, that’s why.’

Stiles’ arms do a weird helicoptering motion as he splutters, ‘I am _not!’_

‘You almost incited a bird to homicide,’ Erica says, making Stiles’ features fall into the sort of scowl that Derek would be proud of.

‘And you made the vending machine fall over,’ Isaac adds. ‘If I hadn’t pushed you out of the way you totally would have been squished.’

Stiles narrows his eyes. ‘That vending machine is the danger, not me! I was just exercising my civil right to delicious, carbonated beverages and it came out of nowhere, man! If anything needs risk assessing it's that degenerate bastard!’ 

‘You provoked it, Stiles. And you tripped over fresh air, like, twenty minutes ago, and fell on your face,’ Boyd points out.

‘No I didn’t. I attacked the floor. Strategically.’ Stiles makes a swiping motion with his hands. ‘Woulda beaten that motherfucker too, if Scotty hadn’t come in and pulled me off it.’

Derek rolls his eyes as he massages his temples with his fingertips. ‘Jesus fuck, Stiles. The second you were born, on some higher level of being, Charles Darwin ordered popcorn.’

Stiles slumps down in his seat, pouting darkly. ‘Does that mean you’re actually going to risk assess me?’

‘Oh, I have,’ Derek says, producing a clip-on ID badge from his pocket and handing it to Stiles. ‘After the bird thing. This was the outcome.’

The badge is plain white, with ‘Fucking Menace’ written on it in thick black letters. Derek tells Stiles to wear it as part of his regulation uniform to give everyone else fair warning.

Stiles clips it onto his breast pocket, and from the quirk of his lips, Derek suspects that Stiles is actually proud of it. 

When everyone starts to move towards the door to leave, Stiles hangs back a little. ‘Uh,’ he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. ‘Look, man, uh, boss, uh, boss-man… I just wanted to say thanks for, you know, being cool enough not to fire me. Everyone else said you definitely would, but here I am, so, you know, thanks.’

Derek frowns. ‘Well the bird thing wasn’t entirely your fault. And I can't definitively attribute blame for the incident with the vending machine since it's essentially its word against yours.'

Stiles laughs a little, and it strikes Derek that he’d actually have a very attractive mouth if it wasn’t for all the bullshit that comes out of it. It's all wide and bow-shaped and his lower lip turns this really nice shade of pink when Stiles has been chewing on it, which is _all the time,_ and Derek is so busy being horrified at himself for the errant, unwelcome thought that he nearly misses Stiles saying, ‘Yeah, I actually meant for the coffee mug thing, so…’

Wait. Coffee mug thing?

The legs of Derek’s chair make a shrill rasping noise, scraping back over the floor as Derek gets slowly to his feet. He rests his hands flat on the table, bringing him closer to Stiles. 

‘What coffee mug _thing?’_ He keeps his tone low and dangerous, enjoying the way Stiles’ eyes widen in fear. If anything has happened to his coffee mug there’ll be hell to pay. He fucking _loves_ that coffee mug. It’s just a cheap white mug with a stupid slogan on it (‘I’m sarcastic because punching people in the face is frowned upon’) but Cora bought it for him when he started the company, and now every time he uses it he thinks of the pride on her face when he’d set it on his desk. 

The mug is familiar and reliable and comforting, and _his._

 _No-one_ touches the mug. 

‘In fairness,’ Stiles says, swallowing hard as he takes a nervous step backwards, ‘it had a pithy little quote about sarcasm, like, right on the side of it. It was like my spirit animal, only in mug form. It _called_ to me. How was I supposed to know it was yours?’

Derek takes a deliberate step around the table. ‘What. Happened.’

‘Nothing that a little superglue won’t fix? I’ll fix it, I swear! I’m sorry!’ Stiles squeaks out, before taking off at a run down the corridor.

Derek sighs and wonders if drinking coffee from Stiles’ skull would be as good as using his mug. Probably not. Stiles would likely still be talking, letting all the precious coffee spill out over Erica’s paperwork and then she'd come after Derek with the hair elastic. Not worth it. 

He’s still ninety per cent sure he’s going to fire Stiles.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to say that I don't actually have any sort of personal vendetta against Justin Bieber, it exists solely within this literary construct (I'm actually in Camp Supreme Indifference IRL), I just needed something that wasn't going to be the favorite jam of two twenty-something guys. So if Justin's out there and he comes across this while indulging his secret Sterek fanfic habit, then, you know, sorry Justin. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading along, your comments always make my day!

Derek spends his Saturday running on the Preserve and cleaning every inch of his car until it gleams (he doesn’t care what Laura says, his Camaro is _not_ a statement about the size of any part of his anatomy, it’s just fucking awesome, thank you very much). On Sunday he gets brunch with Cora and her boyfriend Josh, and winds up pleasantly buzzed and full of eggs and waffles, watching the game in a semi-catatonic state on their sofa. It’s sort of the perfect weekend, and by Monday Derek is feeling much more genial towards Stiles and Scott. 

It was their first week, after all.

Everybody makes mistakes.

When he wakes up at about lunchtime on Monday, he’s down to fifty-fifty on the firing thing. 

He’s always the first to arrive at work – or at least, he usually is - only this time when he makes it to the dingy little break room that smells like cheap lemon cleanser, he finds his mug on the side waiting for him, all in one piece. 

He squints at it. He can just about make out a faint crack down the handle that spiders out over the body of the mug, but it’s clearly been carefully fixed, and Stiles doesn’t even seem to have used Sellotape or chewing gum or some other moronic medium to do it, which is what Derek would honestly have expected. 

He stands at arm’s length and carefully pours coffee into it. None seeps out, and Stiles’ odds get a little better. 

*

Later that night, after a patrol around the perimeter, Derek makes his way back towards the kitchen to grab more coffee in his now-functional mug. He slows down as he nears the open doorway to the security cam room, knowing Boyd and Stiles have been assigned there. 

There’s an inane whistling noise that’s the sort of thing cartoon wolves make when they’re trying to feign innocence, and it immediately raises Derek’s suspicions. 

After a few seconds the whistling stops and someone – Stiles, Derek can tell – clears their throat.

‘Hey Boyd,’ Stiles’ voice floats through the open doorway, saturated with false sweetness, ‘you know that park, a couple blocks over?’

‘Yeah.’ Boyd is at least as suspicious as Derek. Boyd is wise.

‘The one with the duck pond with all the ducks…’

‘Yeah…’ Boyd drawls.

‘Hypothetically…’ there’s a squeak that suggests Stiles is messing with his adjustable office chair, ‘how mad do you think boss man would be if someone were to, you know, have dropped their work-issued cell in that pond during an… _altercation,_ shall we say… with a hypothetical frisbee.’

There’s a pregnant pause. Derek can only imagine the gymnastics Boyd's forehead must be performing right now. ‘An altercation.’

The chair squeaks again, and god dammit, is Stiles actually spinning in it now? Derek wants to throw it out of the window. Preferably with Stiles still in it.

‘A hypothetical one, yeah. A small and entirely understandable misjudgement on the part of the hypothetical guy in predicting the trajectory of said frisbee, and instead of pulling off a truly epic one-handed airborne catch with added jazz hands… It hit him in his hypothetical face and made fall on his ass in the pond. Hypothetically.’

_Squeak... squeak... squeak..._

Boyd coughs. Derek suspects it's to cover a laugh. ‘Well, hypothetically… The boss would rip your throat out. With his teeth.’

The squeaking stops abruptly. 

‘Huh,' Stiles says thoughtfully. 'It’s my break in thirty, right?’

‘Right. Hey, Stiles…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Is that why you smell like fish today?’

‘…Yes. Yes, it is.’

Derek pivots on the vertex of anger and amusement, but in the end the mental image of a shocked Stiles floundering in a muddy pond, no doubt gaping like one of the resident fish, means he falls on the side of amused – _just_ – so instead of tearing Stiles a new one he rolls his eyes and walks away.

Half an hour and a large, hot coffee later, Derek bumps into Stiles who is pinwheeling down a corridor towards the exit. Stiles screeches to a halt, staring at him with wide, coppery eyes. He does indeed smell distressingly of fish. 

‘Stiles.’ Derek nods at him. 

‘Hey there, Derek. Uh, boss man. Uh, hi.’ Stiles shifts from foot to foot, guiltily.

Derek narrows his eyes at the paraphernalia hanging from Stiles’ unfeasibly long fingers. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Me? I’m, uhm, just borrowing this bucket. And uh, this paracord. If you need me I’ll be down by the pond. Fishing. Recreationally. Just, you know. Night fishing. In the dark. It’s a thing. Nothing untoward. ‘Kay, bye.’ Stiles scoots out in a flurry of limbs.

Derek turns, biting back a laugh, and walks right into Boyd’s solid chest. 

Boyd smirks, all knowing and enigmatic, because he’s an asshole. 

‘What.’ Derek grits out. 

‘You didn’t rip his throat out.’ 

Derek frowns, his brows furrowing into a deep V. ‘So?’

‘You didn’t even nibble him round the edges.’ 

‘I… what?’ Whatever point Boyd is trying to make, Derek’s not getting it.

Boyd quirks an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth lifted just a little. ‘No reason…’ He spins on his heel and heads back towards the cam room.

Derek glowers as hard as he physically can at his retreating back. Boyd’s weird. 

*

As the days go by, Derek thinks maybe he starts to get Boyd’s point a little. 

He definitely should have fired Stiles on his second day, if not his first. There’s no way he should have made it well into his third week. He’s ridiculous. He still argues with everything, and is annoyingly sarcastic, and breaks stuff, and generally lives up to his 'Fucking Menace' Badge of Shame (Stiles, of course, calls it his Badge of Glory, and pets it lovingly in moments of deep contemplation).

Derek should hate him. 

Derek should definitely fire him.

But he doesn’t do either. 

Sure, he glares and sometimes he yells and he docks their access to the cookie tin and one night (when Stiles finds a lost ring on the sidewalk and pretends to be Gollum for several very long, trying hours until Scott shouts _‘For Gondor!’_ and leaps on him, denting his radio in the process) he forces them to re-label every file in the filing cabinet while enduring the trusty Bieber punishment loop over the sound-system (Derek’s first choice of punishment music backfires when Scott and Stiles high-five one bar in and jump into a disturbingly synchronised, aggressively sexual Macarena that Derek can never unsee), but he never actually fires them. 

Truthfully, under the thick layer of long-suffering irritation, it’s possible there’s a tiny spark of affection towards them and their stupid, dumbass, earnest faces. If anything, it’s himself Derek hates. It’s clear that Stiles, in particular, is incapable of taking his job seriously, and Derek hates that he doesn’t hate him for it. He hates that a tiny, moronic part of himself thinks Stiles and Scott are sort of… fun. 

Boyd and Erica sniffed out his weakness before he himself was aware of it, and now glide around with a matching, dangerous glint in their eyes that suggests that Derek is one transgression away from a lifetime of merciless teasing. 

Derek overhears the echo of Stiles and Scott’s voices as they go to leave for the night. 

‘Seriously dude, you’d better have put it in lost property!’ Scott is saying.

‘I found it! It came to me! It’s mine! My own!’ Stiles hisses, rearing back from him.

Scott sighs. ‘Dude. Do I need to kick your butt again?’ 

‘No,’ Stiles mutters darkly. ‘Filthy hobbitses.’ 

Scott elbows him then, and Stiles shoves him back, and it all descends into another low-key brawl, only now Derek doesn’t have to care because they’re off company property.

Except he does care, just a tiny little bit.

He doesn’t have a ton of friends; never has had. He has family and colleagues and sports teams. But not really many friends. He doesn’t really like people, doesn’t know what they expect of him. Whatever it is, he certainly never seems to live up to it, and even those people that flicker towards him because he’s supposedly a good-looking guy drift away after a while, when they realise how emotionally constipated he really is. He’s always made a point of trying hard not to care. Sure, he’s a little lonely, but it’s not like he’s _alone._

But as he watches Stiles swipe at Scott’s jacket, cackling gleefully about ‘Crumbses! Crumbses on his jacketses!’ he feels a pang of some deep, undefinable ache spread through his chest, and he thinks he maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be part of something kind of like what Stiles and Scott have.

*

The ring sits unclaimed in their office until the next day, twinkling in the little basket of lost property where it lays in a clear plastic envelope along with a ‘found item’ form fully filled out in Stiles’ slanted, spidery scrawl. Stiles had, of course, put it there right after he found it. He's just not telling Scott that. Derek can't decide if Stiles' unwavering commitment to his Gollum alter-ego - which also includes a cardboard box cave in the cam room to fully protect his 'precious' - is made better or worse by the fact that it's centred around what is now an entirely fictional ring that exists only in Stiles' imagination.

Once twenty-four hours have passed, Derek takes it up to the private office on the fourth floor, where there’s a large, lockable safe. The night security team never normally need to come up here; it’s one long corridor with three doors off it which are securely locked, and the corridor is covered by a camera.

Derek is caught off-guard, then, when he rounds the corner to find Stiles already there, staring at the door like he might be able to move it with the power of his mind. Derek doesn’t like his chances, based on the extremely limited amount of brain power he’s seen Stiles exert so far. 

‘Stiles,’ he says, and Stiles jumps a clear foot in the air. Derek raises his voice a little so Stiles can hear him over his wheezes. ‘What are you doing up here?’

‘Fuck!’ Stiles yelps, clutching at his chest. _‘Fuck._ We need to get you a bell!’

Derek arches an eyebrow. ‘That would be counter-productive,’ he says, gesturing to the large white letters that emblazon the word ‘SECURITY’ across his breast pocket. He heads for the door he needs and presses his finger to the scanner, waiting as the blue line of light flares up under it. 

‘So why are you up here, Tweedledumb? Get lost?’

Stiles huffs at the nickname and opens his mouth to answer, but Derek is distracted when the little light next to the scanner turns red instead of green.

‘Oh what fresh hell is this?' He mutters, jamming his finger back against the pad. 

‘Uh, Derek…’ Stiles says, but Derek will listen to his terrible excuses for still getting lost later. Right now he has more important things to concentrate on, like being annoyed, and glaring. 

The line of light moves under his finger and he waits expectantly for the green light to flash on apologetically, but it lights up angry-red again.

‘Motherfucker…’ He grinds out, jabbing at the key pad sharply, ignoring the sad little light flares that follow his fingertip momentarily before fading into nothing.

‘Hey, Derek…’

‘Just a second Stiles, alright?’ He wonders if he should call Greenberg or if he should bypass the three wasted hours this will inevitably cause him and make a direct call to the tech guys. 

‘But Derek, I…’ 

‘Stiles just give me a minute, for god’s sake!’ Derek snaps, more sharply than he’s ever spoken to Stiles before. 

Stiles shoulders slump a little, and his voice has a new note of apprehension as he says, ‘No, but, see, you didn’t swipe your card first. You just shoved your finger in there without any of the necessary slidey swipey foreplay part.’ 

Derek blinks at him, and then back down at the finger scanner. He’s right. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ 

Stiles breaks out into a blinding grin. ‘Do we need to have a talk, Boss man, about why we don't shove things places without the slidey swipey foreplay part?’ 

Derek sighs. _‘No.’_

‘Good to know. Permission to mock you gently in the break room, Sir?’

‘Denied.’ 

'Permission to call you Tweededumber?'

'Denied.'

‘Permission to do the fun swipey slidey card thing?’

Derek sniffs. ‘Granted.’ 

Derek watches as Stiles grabs the card surprisingly delicately between long, tapered fingers, and swipes it through the slot. Huh. He’d never noticed Stiles has such nice hands. They’re actually… sort of pornographic, he thinks, ears burning at the tips. He looks up to find Stiles closer than he expected, warm eyes trained on Derek’s face. 

Close-up Derek can see all the different browns and ambers and golds in Stiles’ eyes and hair, even in the terrible fluorescent lighting of the hallway. He also notes, absently, that when Stiles doesn’t smell like pond-scum, he actually smells really nice.

He’s just realising that his and Stiles’ gazes have been locked on each other for about five seconds too long to not be awkward, when the little light finally glows with green approval, and the mechanism in the lock slides back. Derek shoulders into the room, knowing Stiles is right behind him. He flips on the light and makes his way straight to the safe without looking back. He really doesn’t know what just happened. Stiles is a college kid, and his employee, and a _moron,_ he can’t go around having almost-moments like whatever that was. He needs to get a grip. Prove to Stiles he’s still in control. 

‘So you wanna tell me why you still can’t find your way around the building even now? Need Erica to draw you one of her famous crayon maps?’ He says, teasingly but with a little bite. ‘I figured Greenberg was the only one stupid enough to get lost in a rectangular building…’ 

‘Oh I wasn’t lost,’ Stiles murmurs, almost too softly to be heard.

‘Excuse me?’ Derek deposits the ring in the safe and slams it shut, spinning to face Stiles, who is chewing his lip uncomfortably. 

‘I was looking for the roof!’ Stiles blurts. 

Derek just frowns at him. 

‘The security camera up there is, uh, blurry. I wanted to clean it.’ Stiles waves his hands around in a ‘wax on-wax off’ sort of motion. Idiot. 

‘The roof access is at the other end of the building.’ Derek says irritably, wishing Stiles would put his stupid hands away. Now he’s noticed them, he’s having considerable trouble not noticing them any more. 

‘Right,’ Stiles says, shuffling on the spot. ‘Gotcha.’

‘Also if you think I’m letting you go up on the roof just so you can put your herculean-levels of imbecilic, quaffle-for-brains to the test by, I don’t know, getting your head stuck in the air vents _‘because of science,’’_ Derek lifts his hands to do the air quotes, which feels idiotic but necessary, ‘you are sorely mistaken. You’ll have to figure out another way to kill yourself to death.’ 

Stiles ducks his head like he’s hiding a smile, and nods rapidly. ‘Fair call, boss man. That’s… yeah. Fair call.’

It’s not until they’re halfway down the second set of stairs, boots clanging heavily against the metal, when Stiles glances over at Derek and says, ‘Dude… _quaffle-for-brains?_ I am so getting that put on a mug…’ 

And Derek, despite his better judgement… Derek laughs. 

It doesn't last long, fading away when Derek realises, with a slow, grinding jolt to the stomach, that Stiles has actually managed to get under his skin. Not, a lot. Just a little. But still. 

What the fuck.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tested out a _lot_ of different cookies for this chapter. 
> 
> For science, obviously.
> 
> (I don't know how it works elsewhere in the world, but here in the UK we are just entering chocolate-orange-everything season and it is glorious.)
> 
> Thank you for comments, I really truly appreciate and squeal dorkily over every single one.

Derek spends the next few days trying to ignore the uncomfortable realisation that something inside him has somehow… warmed to Stiles. Initially he writes it off as a temporary lapse in judgement; maybe he’s coming down with a cold or something, his defences are down, it’s all going to right itself in a few days once his antibodies kick in. He ups his vitamin regimen and drinks a lot of orange juice and is extra disdainful towards Stiles in general, and hopes that will fix the issue. 

It doesn’t work. No matter how aggressively he tries to ignore Stiles, he still finds his eyes seeking Stiles out when they’re in the same vicinity, still finds his head swivelling unbidden in the direction of his loud, ebullient laugh. It’s like Stiles has some sort of gravitational pull that Derek can’t help responding to. He can’t understand himself.

Stiles is loud where Derek is quiet, free where Derek is reserved. He’s scattered where Derek is focused, and seeks out company where Derek seeks solitude. He talks endlessly about new apps and how the female character he created for himself in his favorite RPG game is half-way to seducing Scott’s character without Scott even knowing it’s him. Derek only understands a fraction of what Stiles says, preferring the books that kept him company during his childhood over new technology.

Stiles is different to Derek in almost every way, it seems. Maybe that’s what’s piqued Derek’s interest. It’s scientific, or something. It’s not like he’s _attracted_ to the kid, for god’s sake, he thinks to himself as he watches Stiles lower himself into Derek’s fancy pneumatic office chair, a triumphant smirk playing about his wide mouth. 

Derek stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrow raised. No-one but Derek is allowed to sit in Derek’s fancy office chair, but Stiles had scrambled madly down the corridor in order to get to the office first, and flung himself into the chair with a screech of ‘dibs!’ or some such inane thing. 

The triumphant smirk only lasts for half a second before twisting into a shocked ‘O’, letting out a high squeak of shock as the back of the chair reclines flat in one rapid movement, taking Stiles’ upper body with it. Stiles’ long legs reflexively fly up into the air, making the chair – and Stiles - spin wildly, Stiles’ stream of profanities getting louder when his head swings around in Derek’s direction and more muffled as he swings away. All Derek can do is watch as the tangle of limbs flails madly, before Stiles is unceremoniously dumped out onto the floor. After a beat of silence, Stiles’ red-cheeked face pops up, muttering curses upon all the chairs in the building. His cheeks get even ruddier as he notices Derek, still propped up in the doorway. 

He unfolds himself to standing with an aggrieved huff. ‘Okay, _why_ do you even _have_ an attack chair?’ he sputters bitterly. 

Derek makes his way over to his chair, which is gently spinning, backrest in place, the picture of innocence. ‘To stop idiots from claiming dibs on it,’ he says, flicking the button to lock the backrest in place and easing himself into it with a satisfied sigh. It’s such a good chair. 

He’s _definitely_ not attracted to the lanky guy that’s currently glaring daggers at him, breathing heavily. Absolutely not. Even if he does have pornographic hands. And okay, yeah, a pornographic mouth. And nice eyes. 

He’s still an idiot who can’t even sit in a chair like a normal human being, for Christ’s sake.

Derek sends Stiles off to the cam room and then settles in, jabbing at his keyboard aggressively as he carefully ignores all thoughts of Stiles’ mouth. 

He groans as he thunks his head down on the solid wood of the desk, hoping to knock some sense into himself.

He really doesn’t understand himself. 

It doesn’t help that Stiles continues to vacillate from low-key dorky (it’s not adorable, it’s _not_ adorable, it’s… okay, it’s a _little_ adorable) to all-out ridiculous, which is as confusing as it is infuriating.

Derek tells himself he’s just a bit jealous of Stiles’ natural ease with people. One night during their lunch break, Stiles and Scott have an entire conversation solely in silent nods and head-tilts, which results in Stiles disappearing for a few minutes and then returning with a soda for Scott. As he hands it over he facepalms and says, ‘Oh sorry man, I totally forgot your chips,’ and scurries off to the vending machine, leaving Derek wondering exactly which wordless nod communicated Scott’s desire for chips. He thinks he wouldn’t mind having someone understand him like that. 

Just someone. In general. Not Stiles specifically. Obviously. 

He's sort of fascinated by Stiles’ ability to laugh at himself. It’s something Derek struggles with; he doesn’t like highlighting his weakness to the world, doesn’t understand how Stiles seems to turn it into a strength, a means to endear himself to people. 

And he still really doesn’t like the other side of the coin, which is that Stiles still seems incapable of taking his job seriously, and which is still absolutely a problem for Derek.

It’s hard sometimes, to keep his temper in check, when Stiles always assumes the role of class clown. 

One Thursday night, a mandatory staff training session finds Derek standing, one hand firmly on his hip, the other holding up a rubber beer bottle. ‘I think we can all agree that Erica is easily the most terrifying person here,’ Derek says, smirking a little at the immensely pleased expression that appears on Erica’s face. ‘So tonight she’s going to show you inept fools how to disarm a drunken moron armed with a beer bottle. In order for that to happen I’m going to need one of you to be said moron. Shouldn’t be much of a stretch, I know…’ He’s barely had the chance to finish before Stiles has hopped off the bench with his arm stretched in the air like a goddamn kindergartner. 

‘I volunteer!’ His hand waves about enthusiastically. ‘I volunteer as tribute!’

Derek’s sighs heavily. He has a fair idea how this will go. ‘Anyone else? Anyone else at all?’ His heart sinks along with his hopes at the sight of the row of blank faces in front of him. 

‘So I gotta be a drunk guy, right?’ Stiles says, eye dancing with mischief as he skips over and plucks the rubber bottle from Derek’s hand. 

‘Yes, Stiles,’ Derek says on an exhale of frustration, eyeing Stiles warily.

‘You want me to really commit, right? Give it my all?’ Stiles’ pink lips are stretched into a wickedly perfect – or rather, perfectly wicked – grin.

Derek rolls his eyes. ‘Just do it, Stiles,’ he grinds out through clenched teeth. 

‘Alright, boss man, you got it.’ Stiles rolls his shoulders a few times and hums through a few vocal exercises because he’s a _massive dork_ , and then turns around, brandishing the fake bottle. But instead of advancing on Erica he waves the rubber bottle around in the air and lurches over to Scott, grabbing him by the cheeks, gazing soulfully into his eyes. ‘I love you, man,’ he slurs earnestly.

‘I love you too, bro,’ Scott replies, through chipmunk cheeks.

‘No,’ Stiles squeezes his face harder. ‘You don’ unnerstan’… I really love you, man… An’ Boyd! Booooyd! Boydy Boydy Boyd Boyd Boyd…’ Stiles pauses to hiccup. ‘I love you too, bro!’ 

He releases Scott’s face to gesture expansively at the assembled group, staggering slightly in the process. ‘I love all you guys. Love you like woah…’

He spins on one heel, clutching the rubber bottle to his chest. As Stiles starts to waltz around the room, crooning ‘row row row your boat’ tenderly to the bottle, and Isaac falls off the bench from laughing so hard, Derek massages his aching temples. He doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or kick someone’s ass.

*

A few days of intense glowering later, Derek responds to a radio call from Erica for urgent medical assistance. He winces as he realises Stiles is the designated first-aider for that shift (basic first aid training is one of the non-negotiable requirements Derek has in place for all new staff, no matter how temporary). Stiles seems generally well-intentioned, but his laissez-faire attitude to everything makes it hard to imagine him being responsible for someone’s physical well-being, so Derek decides to go along just in case they need someone to do actual adulting. He arrives at the scene seconds after Stiles does, to find Greenburg, stretched out, pale and waxy, at the bottom of a flight of stairs. 

Greenberg sniffles wetly, and Derek grimaces when he realises Greenburg’s arm is at a very weird and definitely unhappy angle. 

Stiles crouches down, grabbing for his medical bag. He hums as he takes in the arm. ‘Oh wow,’ Stiles says. ‘Well either it’s broken or you’re a contortionist, and judging by the swelling and all the weeping I gotta say I’m hoping you’re not a contortionist ‘cos you’re a _really_ bad one.’

Greenberg directs a venomous and snotty glare at Stiles. ‘Of course it’s broken you fucking idiot! I fell down the stairs.’ He pauses as his voice breaks a little. _’Fuck._ It fucking _hurts.’_

Stiles nods, humming sympathetically. ‘Okay, buddy, no worries. I brought all manner of essential medical supplies with me. Erica’s calling an ambulance, but let’s see what I have here that could help you…’ He starts to rifle through the bag. 

‘Is it a massive fucking bag of morphine?’ Greenberg demands crossly. ‘Cos if it’s not then I’m guessing you don’t have a fucking _thing_ to help me right now…’

‘Hmm, yeah, no morphine I’m afraid,’ Stiles rummages around. Derek doesn’t look at the breadth of his shoulders. Not even a little bit. ‘Aha!’ Stiles pulls something out triumphantly.

Greenberg narrows his eyes in justifiable suspicion. ‘What are those?’

Stiles beams widely. ‘Dora the Explorer band aids!’

Greenberg makes a noise that sounds alarmingly like a snarl, and Derek decides to give it one more minute before he steps in and puts a sling on the poor guy himself.

‘Okay, that’s a no.’ Stiles puts his palms up placatingly, then holds up a package in his long, improbably elegant fingers. ‘I gotta put a sling on it, though, is that alright?’

‘Fuck you, man. Don’t you have anything you could give me for the pain?’ Greenberg pouts like an eerily overgrown toddler. 

Stiles purses his lips as he unwraps the sling and gently positions it around the injured arm, bracing it against Greenberg’s shoulder. ‘I mean yeah, I do. It’s probably not what you’re expecting, though…’ 

Greenberg scoffs, impossibly paler than before owing to the manipulation of his painful arm. ‘I don’t fucking _care,_ just give it to me!’

‘Alright alright, I gotcha man. Here…’ Stiles fumbles around in the large pocket on his thigh, and pulls out a paper bag. ‘Cookie. Super fancy one, too. Got it at an actual bakery, this morning. Not even marked down or anything.’

Greenberg’s jaw drops down at exactly the same moment that Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘I… You…’ Greenberg looks ready to spontaneously combust. ‘A fucking _cookie?_ A _fucking_ cookie? Do I look like I want a _fucking cookie?’_

‘Well…’ Stiles waves the bag around enticingly. ‘It’s a chocolate orange one. Super soft and gooey. Especially since this one’s been in my pocket. Here you go,’ he says, opening the bag and drawing out what is, in fairness, a very fine looking cookie. ‘Give it a try…’

Greenberg splutters a little longer, eyeing the cookie, before muttering, ‘I guess I do like chocolate orange.’ He grabs the cookie and shoves it into his mouth, taking an enormous bite and chewing slowly. His eyes flutter shut and he lets out an ecstatic moan. ‘Oh my _god._ That’s a good cookie.’

Stiles laughs. ‘I know, right?’

‘Ohh…’ Greenberg moans around his second mouthful and Derek immediately makes plans to drink enough to forget this, later. Greenberg hums. ‘I like chocolate _so much…’_

‘Uh huh. I know you do.’ Stiles pats Greenberg’s good arm comfortingly. ‘There there. See? All better now. All relaxed. Chocolate orange is better than morphine.’

Greenberg actually _nods_ in agreement, and holy shit, this seems to be actually working, what the fuck? Derek’s brow furrows in confusion, but before he can give it any more thought the ambulance arrives outside and he’s swept up into a melee of stretchers and paramedics and safety checks.

And tons (and tons) of paperwork. 

He fucking hates Greenberg. 

It’s only later on, when things have calmed down enough to allow them a coffee break, that he thinks to ask Stiles. ‘What the hell was with the cookie thing? He could probably have sued us for mocking his pain or whatever, you know that, right?’ 

Stiles scoffs. ‘Please. It was totally scientific.’

Derek cocks a brow. ‘The squashed chocolate orange cookie from your pocket was scientific?' He makes sure his voice is positively dripping with sarcasm.

‘Chocolate stimulates calming and pain relieving endorphins,’ Stiles says casually, ‘and eating acts as a distraction from the source of pain.’ He stands from his chair and stretches his arms above his head. Derek ignores the curve of the arch of his back. ‘So, yeah,’ he finishes smugly. ‘It was a scientific cookie.’ Derek is actually impressed for a brief moment before Stiles ruins it by sticking his tongue out like a five year old. 

‘Well, shit,’ Derek says, draining the last of his coffee. ‘Seems you paid attention in biology. I was beginning to wonder if you were capable of taking _anything_ seriously. Lucky for Greenberg. Means you weren’t a total liability.’ 

The smug grin fades from Stiles’ face, leaving a dull, blotchy flush in its wake. ‘What do you mean?’ 

Derek rolls his eyes. ‘What I said. You and Scott are giant pains in the ass most of the time. You don’t take the job seriously at all.’

Stiles brow puckers into a frown. ‘Hey, that’s not true.’ 

Derek just looks at him, impassively. 

‘It’s _not_ true!’ Stiles insists stubbornly, tone vehement.

‘Whatever.’ Derek shrugs. It’s not worth arguing over, when Stiles is only here for the summer. ‘We should get back to work.’ He heads for the door.

‘No!’ The slam of Stiles’ hands on the formica table stops Derek in his tracks. When he turns, he finds Stiles, eyes flashing dangerously, knuckles white where they’re gripping the edge of the table. 

‘Excuse me?’ Derek folds his arms over his chest slowly, trying to control his irritation. If Stiles had wanted to be seen taking this seriously then he should have acted that way from the start. Why is he behaving like Derek has somehow insulted his honor, when he's taken every opportunity to screw off over the last month?

‘I know I’m not Mr Doom and Gloom like _some_ people, but I take this seriously,’ Stiles says, low and angry. He chews on his lower lip for a second before he says, ‘I’m gonna prove it to you.’

Derek snorts. ‘How?’ 

Stiles lifts his head, the ghost of a smirk playing around the corners of his lips. ‘I’m gonna break in.’ 

‘What.’ Derek can’t believe this guy. 

‘I’m gonna break in. You’re always saying you’ll get one of the day team to try it one of these days, right? Test our weak areas?’

Derek nods slowly. ‘I guess…’

‘So I’ll do it instead. Tomorrow. And you won’t catch me.’ Stiles eyes are lit up with determination and something that looks a lot like mischief, and it ignites a fiery warmth in the centre of Derek’s chest. He likes a challenge, and Stiles is certainly challenging. It is _so_ on. 

‘Fuck, you’re going to be so pathetic when you lose,’ Derek says, not breaking eye contact. 

Stiles grins. His confidence is a little unnerving, but Derek will be damned if he shows it. Stiles licks his lips. ‘And if I win?’ 

Derek shrugs, unable to look away from the flicker of Stiles’ tongue against his lips. The air feels thick between them, suddenly, but Derek's not backing down now. ‘Name it.’ 

Stiles narrows his eyes contemplatively. ‘Dinner.’ 

Derek’s heart unexpectedly does a weird swoopy thing and yeah, he's officially on dangerous ground with this. He's Stiles' boss and a few years older than him and he's not even really clear what sort of dinner Stiles is referring to, if there even could be some sort of more-than-platonic inference there. He should definitely nip it in the bud. It's the right thing to do. But when he opens his mouth what comes out is, ‘Alright,' and when he sees the glee that spreads over Stiles' impish features it makes him feel so oddly fizzy that he can't bring himself to regret it. 

Stiles whoops so joyously that Derek can't stop a hot blush advancing up his own neck and he suddenly has no idea what to say.

It turns out it doesn't matter, because Stiles is already filling the silence. 'Hey everyone,' he's saying excitedly into his radio, 'Derek and I made a bet and Derek’s gonna buy us all dinner on Saturday when I inevitably win!'

This time the weird swoopy thing his heart does is less pleasant, much closer to disappointment than Derek cares to admit, but he doesn't contradict Stiles.

It doesn’t matter.

It's not like Stiles is going to win, anyway.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for my snail-like pace on this one. I've had some health issues which have slowed me down, but I haven't abandoned any of my fics, especially this one which is kind of the most fun ever to write. The plan for the chapter following this one is actual plot, but until then, more ridiculousness and swearing, because that's how I roll.
> 
> Thank you, kind souls, for your lovely comments which always make me smile!

Derek retracts the telescopic inspection mirror from the undercarriage of the delivery van with a satisfying snap, and gives the whole bay a final once-over before nodding to Erica that the driver can commence with unloading the wooden pallets from the back. He can feel amused eyes burning into the back of his head and knows without looking that it’s Boyd, so he casually gives him the finger without bothering to turn around. So what if Derek’s being extra diligent tonight? It’s not like he’s worried Stiles will actually _manage_ to break in – the guy’s a walking disaster and will almost certainly give himself away by loudly humming his own theme tune or something equally stupid – but it doesn’t hurt to pay a little attention to the finer details that sometimes get overlooked.

He checks his watch, smirking a little when he sees that it’s almost four in the morning. There’s been no sign of Stiles so far, and there’s only two hours left until the end of the shift. He wholeheartedly believes in Stiles’ ineptitude at behaving like a functional adult, but even Stiles wouldn’t have forgotten their routinely scheduled Friday night delivery, which happens like clockwork. Stiles looks forward to it, in fact, since he usually likes to hang around chatting with the driver until the sound of Derek’s teeth grinding together in irritation drowns out their attempts at conversation. It’s the time when the warehouse is most vulnerable at night, and Derek had been sure this was the moment Stiles was going to choose to make his break-in attempt, but he’s inspected the van inside and out, and nothing seems out of the ordinary. 

As he makes his way up the metal staircase towards the cam room, Derek takes a mental inventory of all the patrols and checks he’s put in place over the last few months of being here. The team is tight, Derek knows, and he’s good at his job. He’s got this. There’s no way anyone – least of all _Stiles_ \- is getting past them tonight. 

He slips into the dim quiet of the cam room and sees the entirety of the interior of the warehouse spread out before him, broken down into flickering images over several screens. Everything is calm and undisturbed, and he can’t help but allow the corner of his mouth to quirk up in satisfaction (Cora, who has made it her personal mission to label every one of Derek’s few facial expressions for the benefit of their family and friends, calls this ‘initiating smug mode’, but Cora is ridiculous which is why Derek mostly growls at her).

He drops into the empty office chair next to Tweedledumber and cracks his knuckles. ‘McCall, you good?’

Scott turns to face him, a slightly nervous grin fixed in place, and runs a hand through his shaggy hair. ‘Sure, boss. Nothing to report.’ 

Derek narrows his eyes, scanning McCall’s features closely. ‘Sure you’d tell me if there was? You and Stiles are tight.’ 

The kicked-puppy look on Scott’s face is almost enough to make Derek feel bad. Almost. As it is, he just raises an eyebrow. 

Scott sighs, fiddling with the fabric of his cuffs. ‘Stiles is my bro, but you pay my wages. I’m not an idiot.’

Derek’s second eyebrow takes a slow trip up his forehead to join the first, somewhere near his hairline. 

‘Rude. I’m not helping him, I swear.’ Scott spreads his hands. ‘Like he needs my help, anyway…’ 

‘He certainly doesn’t need your help getting fired,’ Derek says smoothly. ‘He’s doing a fantastic job of that all by himself.’ He checks his watch again. One hour and fifty minutes until the end of the shift. 

Scott chews on his bottom lip, looking suspiciously like he’s trying not to laugh. ‘Look, I know he gives off a certain, uh, first impression. But I wouldn’t underestimate him, he’s hella smart.’ 

‘Seriously?’ Derek can’t help but snort in derision. ‘Stiles’ idea of security is sticking a sign on the door of a bank politely asking people to take off their ski masks before they go in.’ 

Scott huffs out a laugh, reluctantly nodding his head. ‘Well sure, but it doesn’t hurt to ask nicely the first time. You catch more flies with honey, and all that.’ 

Derek rolls his eyes. He doesn’t believe in asking nicely. In his opinion, anyone attempting to commit a crime in his near vicinity should consider themselves lucky to walk away with their teeth intact. ‘You catch more flies with bullshit,’ Derek mutters darkly, aware that Stiles is absolutely an expert in that. Maybe that's what Scott is trying to warn him about. Maybe Stiles will somehow bullshit his way through this. He’s probably got a degree in bullshitting with a framed certificate on the wall. Derek leans in to check each of the screens. ‘I guess it’s good that he has a friend like you.’

‘Aww, Boss-man,’ Scott lights up at the praise, ‘you’re giving me legit heart swells!’ 

‘Means he’ll have someone to visit him in his cardboard box when he’s unemployed and on the street…’ Derek answers with a wolfish grin. If he’s being completely honest, with an hour and forty-five minutes to go, smug mode has most definitely been initiated. Finally he takes pity on Scott, who is doing a lot of outraged spluttering. ‘Just do your job, is all I’m asking.’ 

Those wide, dark eyes get wider. ‘Of course. Trust me, Stiles doesn’t need any special favours.’ 

‘Uh huh,’ Derek stands up and heads for the door, satisfied that everything is as it should be on the cams. ‘Unlike the extremely platonic co-worker who is supposed to be on break but is currently hiding under the desk, no doubt in the hope of a very special favour.’

Scott lets out a slightly strangled noise, and there’s a muffled bump and a squeak from under the desk, somewhere in the vicinity of Scott’s legs. 

Derek grits his teeth and sharpens his tone. ‘Your ass better be fully dressed and outta here when I get back in three minutes’ time, Lahey!’ 

‘Yes, sir,’ the desk says, sadly.

‘I want to see you both after shift. I expected better of you, Isaac! Not Tweedledumber, obviously, he’s a moron, but you!’

‘Sorry, sir,’ the disembodied voice says miserably. 

Boyd sticks his head in through the door just as Derek reaches it. ‘Here to relieve you for your break, McCall.’ 

Derek jerks a thumb in the direction of the desk. ‘Isaac’s gonna need a minute to put his pants back on and then they’ll be right out. Everything looks good so far. I don’t think Stilinski is gonna give us any trouble tonight, though Tweedledumber thinks otherwise.’

He wonders if Stiles even tried to break in, or if he’s just hanging out at the nearest Walmart dressed in full Jedi gear, pretending he’s operating the automated doors using only The Force. It just seems like the sort of thing Stiles might do on a Friday night to pass the time. 

Idiot.

Boyd scratches his chin thoughtfully. ‘You know, maybe it’d be worth listening to McCall. Since he knows Stiles best and all…’ 

‘it doesn’t matter how much anyone talks him up, Stiles is still an idiot,’ Derek scoffs. 

‘Is that so?’ Boyd’s usually serious face turns up into a smirk, and he points a finger at one of the monitors. 

Derek squints at it, then squints again, because… because it _can’t be._

It simply cannot. Fucking. Be. 

It… It wasn’t so, three minutes before. He’s been in front of the screen for the last ten minutes, he’s been watching for fuck’s sake, so _how_ in the name of holy fuck is Stiles sitting at the end of the fourth floor corridor, right outside the safe room, eating something that looks suspiciously like a McMuffin?

With a furious grunt, Derek whirls around and sprints out of the room, leaving Isaac - who is now upright and limping - in his wake. 

He ignores Boyd’s gleeful snort of ‘Get it, McCall!’, and ignores Isaac’s protests that the limp is down to his legs going dead and not ‘butt stuff, you perve!’, and focuses solely on formulating a plan to kill Stiles, possibly with his retractable telescopic inspection mirror. He’s fairly sure a jury of his peers would understand, if he explained it to them.

He ascends the stairs in record time, though it leaves his lungs and legs burning. He takes a deep, fortifying breath before he rounds the corner, and forces himself to count to ten. He’s furious, but he doesn’t want to end up _actually_ killing Stiles to death. Blood’s the worst to get out of carpet. 

He squares his shoulders, and rounds the corner, his last shred of hope that the image on the security camera was some sort of horrible mirage evaporating as he sees Stiles’ lanky frame slouched, cross-legged on the floor.

‘Hey, Boss-man!’ Stiles’ stupid, pretty face splits into a wide grin as he notices Derek’s approach. He licks ketchup off his index finger and then says, with a lascivious waggle of his eyebrows, ‘Want some of my McMuffin?’

Derek glares as hard as he possibly can. He doesn’t care if he manages to set Stiles on fire. He’ll pay for a new carpet. ‘No.’

Stiles hums, regarding the item in question with a critical eye. ‘Don’t blame you, man. I’d have thought twice if I’d seen this sorry excuse for bacon beforehand. I mean look at it… If you listen closely you can still hear it oinking!’ 

Derek’s blood pounds angrily in his ears, but Stiles carries on, obliviously and infuriatingly cheerful. He pokes at the McMuffin with a long, pale finger. ‘Like, what did they even cook this bacon with? A hairdryer? Is there just some poor sap stuck out the back gently warming each piece between his butt cheeks? What the f-'

_‘Stiles!’_ Derek finally gives in and snaps, wrenching Stiles from the midst of his monologue.

The sharpness of his tone makes Stiles sit up automatically, and salute, which unfortunately leads to him slapping himself in the face with the remnants of his lamentable bacon.

As Stiles looks, aghast, as the mush of meat, cheese and carbohydrate now peeling off his face and into his lap in beige globs, and holy shit how has _this guy_ bested Derek? 

‘Aw, shit,’ Stiles mutters, scrubbing at his face with a ragged tissue he’s unearthed from the pocket of his khakis. Fucker isn’t even wearing dark clothing, Derek thinks bitterly. He’s even wearing bright red chucks, for fuck’s sake. He’s visible a mile off. He’s the least subtle person Derek has ever met. How the fuck has he done this?

‘How the fuck did you do this?’ Derek says, never one to beat around the bush. 

Stiles beams. ‘Told you I would.’ 

Derek grits his teeth until his jaw cracks. ‘Well you didn’t actually get into the safe.’

‘You never specified that as a parameter, Boss-man,’ Stiles says, getting to his feet inelegantly. ‘And besides, I only had twenty-four hours’ notice. Next time gimme forty-eight and I’ll clean you out.’ His tone is light, but there’s a steely edge to it that somehow makes Derek believe him. 

Derek does the only sensible thing, and thunks his forehead onto the nearest wall. _‘Fuck.’_

Stiles laughs, and Derek rolls his head a little to the side to squint-glare at him. It’s not his best work, but he’s been told it’s still pretty terrifying. 

Stiles doesn’t seem to agree, if his shit-eating grin is anything to go by. He just scoops up a messenger bag he’s brought with him and stretches his arms out in front of him. Derek turns so he can glower more effectively, and that’s when he notices the stocking, stretched to capacity, yanked over the very top of Stiles’ stupid messy hair, like some sort of mesh beanie. What sort of idiot breaks in wearing a bright red hoodie, red chucks, and a stocking on his head? 

A Stiles-shaped idiot, Derek supposes. Oh, how Derek hates him.

Stiles follows the direction of his eyes and points up at the stocking, smiling goofily. ‘Had to go incognito, after all.’

Derek sighs from his toes and grinds out, ‘How?’

‘You can’t guess?’ Stiles seems delighted by this, as they begin the descent down the stairs together. 

There’s a long pause before Derek can bring himself to spit out, ‘No.’ He was so sure he had everything covered. But, as the famous saying goes, ‘initiating smug mode comes before large-scale humiliation by a hapless imbecile’. Or something like that. 

‘Tell you what, Boss-man,’ Stiles says, ‘if you figure it out, I’ll buy _you_ the next dinner.’

Derek shouldn’t react. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows through long experience that you should never argue with idiots, because they just drag you down to their level and then beat you with their experience, and goddamn it, that’s _exactly_ what’s happening right now, but something about the cocky look on Stiles’ face, about the smug look in his eye (that was supposed to be _Derek’s_ smug look, fuck you very much), gets Derek’s blood up, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s saying, ‘Challenge accepted!’ 

What the fuck? He’s not sure, at this point, who he despises more; himself, or Stiles.

‘So where are you taking us for my victory dinner, Boss-man?’ Stiles elbows him jovially and surprisingly painfully in the stomach, before reaching over to jab at a button on Derek’s radio and emit a loud victory caw across the airwaves, for fuck’s sake.

Yeah, he definitely despises Stiles more.

Derek sighs. Stiles is going to be insufferable. ‘Anywhere but McDonalds.’ He never wants to eat a McMuffin ever again. 

Stiles laughs, which absolutely doesn’t make Derek’s stomach twist in satisfaction. Not at all. ‘How about that place over on Saint Anne’s?’ 

‘I suppose.’ Derek doesn’t know it, which at least means hopefully no-one will know him.

‘Excellent,’ Stiles crows, as they make it to the office. ‘I hear they do a mean steak. And tomorrow is National Steak and Blow Job day, after all!’ Stiles leans in close, slipping past as Derek opens the door, and says, with a lascivious wink, ‘Just so you all know, I like my steaks rare and my blow jobs well done.’

‘Something tells me your blow jobs are rarer than your steaks, Tweedledumb,’ Derek grinds out, stalking away.

Stiles gasps, clutching a hand to his chest. ‘You wound me, Boss-man! That was like an arrow to the heart!’ 

Once he rounds the corner Derek leans for just a second against the cool wall, letting the rush of emotions – anger, confusion, begrudging respect, and maybe a tiny, tiny sliver of lust – calm within him. He thinks about red chucks and McMuffins and a stocking stretched over a head of messy hair. He thinks about bright eyes and long fingers, and a laugh that makes his own insides tingle. 

He can hear, from around the corner, the loud honking that is Stiles ‘calling’ for Scott in hippo noises, because this is a thing they apparently do in public places, instead of calling out each other’s names like normal people. Scott honks gleefully back, until the honk is cut off with a wheezing sound that means Stiles has greeted him with an overly-enthusiastic chest bump, and Derek hates that he knows all this now. 

And he hates that he’s actually looking forward to taking Stiles out tomorrow night. Even with it’s with the whole team. And just for steak, obviously, not blow jobs. 

Derek has a strict ‘no blow jobs until the third date’ rule, after all. 

Not that this is a date. At all. He knows that. 

Oh, _god._

Yeah, he’s pretty sure he despises himself more.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of blow jobs - but probably not like you're expecting. 
> 
> Also a tiny twinge of angst, but it won't get crazy, I promise. 
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me, I seriously love reading your feedback, thank you thank you thank you.

The steak joint turns out not to be quite as hellish as Derek had expected, given it was chosen by a guy who thinks curly fries are the pinnacle of haute cuisine. The wait staff don’t seem to have their buttocks on display or be on roller skates, and Derek could swear he caught a glimpse of actual salad on one of the other diner’s plates. Nothing fancy - not, like, micro-greens or anything, but still. 

He shuffles his feet awkwardly, relieved when the floor doesn’t seem too sticky under the highly polished boots that are the one concession to his inexplicable nervousness over this not-a-date, blow-job-free team steak dinner. He’d refused to make any other adjustments to his standard non-uniform uniform of comfortable jeans and a plain tee, even in the face of cruel and unreasonable sibling pressure. If Cora and Laura had had their way, Derek would be trussed up like a prize turkey right now in the tightest denim jeans he’d ever seen (the very thought makes him wince on behalf of his giblets). 

His sisters, who both possess mystical clairvoyant abilities when it comes to Derek’s emotions, had extricated themselves from whatever rafter they were hanging upside down from in order to harass him for several hours - or maybe it had just felt that way - about hair products and stubble density and the state of his closet (too much stone-wash denim, not enough shirts with buttons), because these things are apparently insurmountable obstacles on Derek’s ‘path to true love’. 

Derek had glared and gritted his teeth and suffered through it, because he knows it makes them feel better to mother him, even if their actual mom would have known that he’s not on a ‘path to true love’. He’s not even looking at road-signs. Zero interest in purchasing a love-seeking GPS with a snotty voice and a carefully crafted air of ennui. Wouldn’t even follow a giant, flashing neon arrow labelled ‘This way to Derek Hale’s path to true love’ that took him to the exact turn off for-

‘Stilinski Street.’ Boyd’s voice startles him from his thoughts.

Derek chokes a little on a mouthful of soda and has to wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What.’

Boyd gives him an odd look. ‘Shots.’ He indicates the small cluster of glasses that have appeared in the centre of the table, each full to the brim with something clear and dangerous. ‘Stilinski’s treat. He said it was only fair since you’re buying dinner.’

‘Oh.’ Derek exhales shakily but manages to be discrete enough about it that he’s pretty sure no-one notices. Stilinski’s _treat._ ‘Uh, no thanks. Driving.’

He doesn’t mention that bringing his camaro had been a conscious decision on his part, to avoid getting too sloppy. He doesn’t want to lose any of his carefully maintained self-possession. He’s still the boss, after all. Boyd is still looking at him too intently, so Derek mumbles something about using the bathroom and escapes to the sanctity of cool, tiled solitude.

He’s already overly-aware of Stiles’ presence, seated as he is, diagonally opposite him. It’s impossible not to be – Stiles is loud and exuberant and obnoxious, just like always, cheeks and throat splotched pink from the alcohol, eyes alight with laughter. Stiles is an annoyingly endearing drunk. He’s flirtatious when sober (his opening line, as he’d flung himself in his chair and grinned triumphantly over at Derek was, ‘Yo, Bossman! Are you wearing space pants ‘cos your ass is out of this world!’) but under the influence, his terrible pick-up lines pepper the conversation liberally, as do his ridiculous eyebrow waggles. He’s as resiliently good-natured as ever, taking every playful rejection in good cheer.

He swipes his tongue over his lower lip after every sip of beer. 

For some reason it makes Derek’s palms sweat.

He shakes his head at his own reflection, washes his hands and heads back to their table, only to find his seat has been taken by a newcomer, someone he doesn’t know. He’s an older guy with a too-loud voice and hair that looks like it’s owner plugs himself into electrical outlets for kicks. He doesn’t blink a whole lot, which is unnerving. Derek hovers by the end of the table slightly awkwardly. 

‘Boss-man! Come sit down and meet Coach-man!’ Stiles calls out amenably.

Derek tilts his head towards the new guy occupying his seat, who seems to be lecturing Scott about something. 

Stiles grins. ‘Fear not, Boss-man! As long as _I_ have a face, _you_ have a place to sit!’ Then he does his patented finger guns. 

Derek wonders how it is that Stiles has ever gotten any action at all. 

Still, he can’t stop his traitorous ears from heating up. He rolls his eyes and follows the only course of action available to him, which is to shove Isaac out of his chair and into Scott’s lap, and take Isaac’s chair. It leaves him sitting next to Stiles. Mere coincidence, of course. 

Stiles leans back in his chair, tipping it back onto two precarious legs. Derek squashes the unwelcome urge to put his arm around the back of the chair to make sure Stiles doesn’t fall. Stiles gestures at the new guy. ‘Boss-man, meet Bobby Finstock. He was mine and Scott’s high school lacrosse coach.’ 

Derek snorts, incredulous. ‘Somebody let you be in charge of a lacrosse stick?’ 

‘Hey, shut up!’ Stiles elbows him lightly in the ribs. ‘I wasn’t that bad! I was MVP one time, and everything.’

Derek narrows his eyes in disbelief. ‘Were all the other players out sick with the flu?’

New guy – Finstock – guffaws. ‘I like this guy!’ He reaches over to clap Derek on the shoulder, and Derek notices the whistle hanging around his neck. At a steak joint. On a Saturday night. ‘Hey,’ the coach says, poking at his shoulder a bit, ‘we ever play you?’

‘No, I was more a basketball guy.’ Derek remembers the rivalry that had run rife between Beacon Heights and Beacon Hills on every front, from academic achievement to sports teams, and suspects that, had he come face to face with this guy back in his less controlled youth, they may have come to blows. 

Finstock sucks his teeth. ‘Yeah, pretty sure I would have remembered you. Shame you were the next district over. We could have used someone with your build back in the day. These two _sucked.’_

Stiles gasps, betrayed. ‘Coach!’ 

‘Well it’s true!’ Finstock takes a long pull from his beer, and smacks lips in satisfaction. ‘You were awful. I mean, truly, truly pathetic. Bilinski runs like a bag of spanners falling down the stairs, and McCall had a heart attack every time I made him do a push-up.’

‘Asthma attack!’ Scott corrects. ‘And I’m doing much better now. I managed to find a treatment that works really well for me.’

‘Yeah, and I run like a gazelle, I’ll have you know!’ Stiles huffs. ‘A _gazelle!’_

Finstock chuckles into his beer. ‘Sure. A gazelle in a bag of spanners, falling down the stairs.’ He clears his throat. ‘So what are you two doing with yourselves these days, since your careers as professional athletes clearly didn’t pan out.’

‘We’re working for Derek’s security company,’ Stiles says. ‘Night shift.’

‘Just for the summer,’ Scott adds defensively. ‘Then we go back to-'

‘School!’ Stiles blurts out, excessively loudly. ‘Then we go back to school. It’ll be our last year.’

‘Wait…’ Finstock frowns and starts to count something on his fingers. ‘If you were at Beacon Heights High six, seven years…’ He shakes his head. ‘Whatever it was. Shouldn’t you both have graduated years ago?’

‘Woah, woah, wait,’ Erica leans over and pokes Stiles in the stomach. ‘Exactly how old are you guys? ‘Cos I thought you were basically fetuses but if that’s not the case then I need to know what moisturiser you’re using, immediately if not sooner.’

Stiles rolls his eyes at her while Finstock barrels on. ‘You both went off to San Fran State, right? I might be getting on a little, but I got a memory like an, ah…’ He waves his hand vaguely in the air. ‘Ah fuck it, what’s the thing with the really good memory?’

‘Elephant?’ Scott offers. 

‘Right!’ Finstock smacks his palm triumphantly down on the table which makes at least three glasses wobble precariously. ‘Thank you, uh… whatever your name is. Bilinski’s friend. Wheezy.’

‘Okay, one: not bi, gay. One hundred per cent into the d,’ Stiles says, and Derek definitely doesn’t file that away for later. ‘Two: It’s actually a misconception that elephants have the best memories in the animal kingdom. It’s now widely thought that dolphins have the best memories,’ Stiles holds up his fingers as he counts. ‘Three: His name is _Scott,_ oh my _god._ And four: yes, we should have graduated already.’

‘We started right after high school, yeah, but, uh…’ Scott tails off awkwardly.

Stiles thunks his glass down, cheeks reddened but voice carefully light. ‘We got kicked out.’

Erica’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘How?’

Stiles’ shoulders slump. ‘We just played a prank and it was gonna be hilarious, but instead it went… ya know… wrong.’

‘Wrong?’

‘Yeah.’ Stiles waves his hand around vaguely. ‘Things went on fire a bit. It was a whole deal.’

Finstock smirks. ‘What’d I tell ya? Losers.’

‘Rude, dude!’ Scott pipes up, emboldened by beer and Isaac nestled into his lap. 

‘We’re back in college, now,’ Stiles adds. ‘I’m a Psych major, Scott’s majoring in Physical Therapy.’ 

The coach rolls his – frankly manic – eyes. Derek sort of wants to punch him. 

‘Well, when you inevitably flunk out again I think there’s a janitor’s position available at the school,’ Finstock says, scraping his chair back. ‘You guys could split it, but you’d need to duke it out over who gets to be in charge of the bucket.’ He looks away from the table, attention pulled elsewhere by something that makes him blow on his whistle, short, sharp and piercing. The whole group wince in unison. ‘Hey, Murphy!’ Finstock bellows. ‘You owe me a drink you magnificent old bastard!’ He gets to his feet and salutes tipsily. ‘See ya, Spanners. Wheezy.’

Once he leaves the table sits in shocked silence for a second, like his presence created a vacuum that caused all rational thought processes to disappear temporarily. No one seems to want to make eye contact with Stiles or Scott, though Isaac has his face tucked comfortingly into the crook of Scott’s neck.

‘So, yeah,’ Stiles says into the abyss of awkwardness, clearing his throat. ‘That was Finstock. High school was _awesome…’_ He laughs, but it’s cut through with a little bitterness. 

Derek is pretty sure he could cook eggs on the deep crimson of Stiles’ cheeks, feels his humiliation twist vicariously in his own stomach. He leans in a little. ‘Don’t sweat it,’ he murmurs, softly enough that only Stiles can hear. ‘Mistakes are how you learn. Your coach can Foucault off…’ 

He knows it’s a stupid joke – if it could even be called that – but it makes Stiles laugh, so it’s worth it. ‘I think that may be the first nice thing you’ve ever said to me,’ Stiles says, eyes brightening. 

‘Don’t get used to it,’ Derek shoots back dryly. ‘I’m only nice in comparison to that guy.’ He tilts his head towards Finstock, who seems to have helped himself to some poor unsuspecting idiot’s beer and is now chugging it in front of his bewildered face.

Stiles grins his perfectly pink grin, and then leans into Derek, maintaining the level of unusual intimacy. ‘You know, I can’t tell if you’re actually funny, or if my judgement is impaired by your ridiculous hotness.’

Derek is pretty sure Stiles is just saying it to needle a reaction out of him, and okay, maybe his ears feel like they’re on actual fire, but he’s proud of himself nonetheless when he manages to shrug nonchalantly and mutter, ‘Little from column A, little from column B…’, and is prouder still when Stiles laughs again, warm and rich. 

Derek raises his soda glass. ‘Your coach is a dick, but if it makes you feel better I didn’t fire Scott after catching him and Isaac hooking up in the cam room earlier, so you won’t have to quit in a fit of righteous indignation. No need for a bucket custody battle just yet.’ 

‘That does actually make me feel better,’ Stiles says. ‘Though I gotta feel for Scotty a little, bro’s got the _worst_ luck when it comes to bjs.’ 

‘Nooo!’ Scott whines, slightly muffled by Isaac’s hair. ‘Is it necessary to share this with the class?’

Erica’s shrieks ‘yes’ at a pitch that could shatter glass, and even Boyd sits back, hands steepled expectantly, and Stiles launches into the story of Scott’s first ever blow job, which ended prematurely when the girl’s roommate barged through the front door unexpectedly, catching them in flagrante delicto on the couch, making the girl scream and Scott accidentally come all at the same time. 

‘So the poor girl,’ Stiles says, ‘she gets come up her nose, which makes her cough, right? And, oh man, the poor girl, she was such a sweet girl, right?’

Scott nods sadly and Isaac strokes his arm sympathetically.

‘The poor girl’s coughing, and Scott panics and thinks, holy shit, she’s choking, right? So then Scotty, being the true gent that he is, tries to help her out by performing a very chivalrous but somewhat overly enthusiastic and _totally unnecessary_ Heimlich manoeuvre, ass naked, which in turn throws his back out, and they ended up spending the whole evening in bathrobes watching… what was it, Scotty?’

‘Dancing with the Stars,’ Scott mutters into Isaac’s neck, shooting a brief, ineffective glare at Stiles who is hooting with laughter. He sounds sort of how Derek would imagine a dying swan to sound. It’s oddly contagious.

‘Dancing with the…’ Stiles wheezes through helpless bubbles of laughter, pillowing his forehead on his folded arms.

‘I’m gonna assume it didn’t work out with the girl?’ Boyd asks, wryly. 

Scott purses his lips and mutters something about having to write a letter of apology to the roommate and how he and the girl are penpals now, which only makes Stiles’ shoulders shake harder with laughter, and hang on, how has Derek not noticed how wide those shoulders actually are?

Isaac reaches over to give Stiles a well-deserved shove, earning himself a plaintive ‘thank you!’ from Scott. ‘About time someone defended my honor! And anyway, buddy, I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you! If I recall rightly your first blowjob was from that guy, what was it, Dan? Stan? The hot one with the braces? Don’t think I’ve forgotten the panicky SOS text you sent me when his braces got caught on your-'

‘Okay!’ Derek blurts out, lurching to his feet in order to avoid hearing about exactly what bit of Stiles’ anatomy Hot Dan’s braces got caught on (he doesn’t want to know this because it sounds painful and horrifying, not because he’s feeling inexplicably violent towards Hot Dan in general, so).

Stiles glances up and him, laughing. ‘Holy shit, Scotty, we scandalised the boss! I think scandalising Boss-man might be my new favorite thing to do.’

‘I’m not scandalised,’ Derek says as scathingly as he can manage, slinking back down into his seat. ‘It’s just the guy’s on his way over with the check.’ He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket to better illustrate the truth of this. Unfortunately it’s somewhat undermined by him then needing to gesticulate expansively to catch the server’s attention, which had been focused somewhere in the opposite direction to Derek. Eventually the guy comes over and ends Derek’s mortification, and Derek hands over his card casually while dying a cringing death on the inside. But, whatever, he’ll get over it. It’s just Stiles. 

‘Ahhh,’ Stiles leans back in his chair and stretches his arms over his head, making his shirt ride up a little. Derek ignores the sliver of pale skin it reveals, and the lean musculature of Stiles' arms. Because he doesn’t care. Totally unmoved. Stiles lowers one of his lovely arms to pat Derek on the shoulder. ‘The settling of the score. This is such a sweet moment. In fact I think… Is it? Yeah, no, I take the scandalising thing back. Besting you is still my new favorite thing to do.’ 

Derek rolls his eyes. ‘Fuck off, Stiles.’ He grabs a few bills to leave as a tip and throws them on the table. 

Stiles raises an eyebrow at the generous amount of money. ‘Damn, son. Now I don’t feel so guilty about the whole bet thing. Lucky you didn’t have anything better to spend the money on.’ 

‘And you do?’ Derek seriously doubts this. 

‘I’m extremely careful with my money,’ Stiles says, slinging a warm arm around Derek’s shoulders. He smells nice, a little like amber, and slightly hopsy from the beer. ‘I use it to make my dreams come true…’

‘So, lap-dancing clubs, then?’ Derek says, as Boyd snorts a laugh in the background.

Stiles chuffs. It’s not adorable. 

‘No!’ He pouts. Also not adorable. ‘I’m serious. Scotty and I used our first pay-check from your place to fulfil one of our lifelong goals!’ 

Scott beams and nods. ‘It’s true.’ 

Stiles sighs in happy nostalgia. ‘It was a beautiful thing, Boss-man. A beautiful thing.’

‘I know I’m going to regret asking…’

‘Yeees?’ Stiles flutters his eyelashes which makes heat pool low in Derek’s stomach (irritation, not lust. Well maybe a little lust. But mostly irritation.)

‘What was the thing, Stiles?’ 

‘The _beautiful_ thing?’

‘Stiles.’ Derek grits out.

‘We hired two private investigators and got them to follow each other around a mall for like three hours.’ 

Derek facepalms. ‘Yup. Regretting asking.’

Stiles’ lower lip juts out. Derek ignores it. 

‘Don’t be such a sourpuss. We’re just embracing our burgeoning youth, Derek!’

Derek regards him steadily. ‘You’re idiots.’

Stiles clutches a hand to his chest in affected outrage. ‘Spirited.’

‘Stupid.’

‘Says the guy who still can’t figure out how I broke into the warehouse.’

Derek huffs out a laugh. ‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘Hey,’ Erica interrupts, tossing her long blonde hair back over her shoulder. ‘Anybody feel like dancing?’ 

It turns out that Stiles _always_ feels like dancing. ‘I,’ he earnestly explains to the assembled group, ‘have got the moves like Jagger’. 

Derek seriously doubts this. 

They decide to go on to a nearby club for a bit because _’burgeoning youth’._ Derek doesn’t really know how he gets persuaded to go along but he thinks it has everything to do with Stiles laughingly calling him ‘Grandpa Derek’ - even though they _just_ established that Stiles is a good bit older than they'd all thought - and nothing to do with the desire to see Stiles dance. 

Within seconds of getting into the sticky, pulsating club, Stiles has abandoned him to dance between Erica and Scott in a way that involves a _lot_ of thrusting, and Derek finds a table in back which is quiet-ish but still has a view of the spectacle his team are making of themselves. By the end of his first non-alcoholic beer he’s trying to figure out the weird, fierce, buzzy feeling that’s consuming him while he watches Stiles and Isaac attempt the least successful Dirty Dancing lift in the history of ever, and realises with dawning horror that it’s _jealousy._

It’s around his third beer, after he’s spent the better part of half an hour trying to decide whether Stiles’ eyes are more copper or old bronze in the golden, strobing lights of the club, that he’s forced to admit to himself that he might be experiencing more than a passing attraction to an unexpectedly attractive guy. He might have developed a tiny, inconsiderate, inconsequential but _really_ annoying crush. 

_Fuck._

He glares at his beer and tries to turn it alcoholic through sheer force of will, downs it anyway, and hunkers down lower in his seat to reconsider all of the life choices that led him to this moment. 

He doesn’t know how long he broods for, but he’s in the midst of thinking dark thoughts about his bright-eyed kindergarten teacher, who was unerringly kind to him and always had messy hair and a crooked tie, when he notices that Isaac and Scott are grinding together, and Erica is draped over Boyd, but there’s no sign of Stiles. 

He waits for a while but Stiles never comes back. The thought that maybe he’s hooked up with someone leaves Derek’s mouth tasting sour, and he decides it’s time to call it a night. 

He uses the bathroom and makes to leave, when he notices a confusing heap of people propped up against the wall near the bar. He’s not sure what catches his attention; maybe the long, pale hands attached to one of the people, or maybe the beefy, beery torso of the other, but when he looks more closely he can see that the people-pile is actually a not-very happy Stiles, being pinned up to the wall by someone closely resembling a Neanderthal. 

Derek picks his way through the crowd and slides in close to Stiles, ignoring the protests from Neanderthal-man. 

‘Everything okay?’

‘Heeey, Derek!’ Stiles is slurring and pale. ‘Good timing! This guy thinks we’re gonna bone, and, hey, newsflash: we definitely aren’t. He’s not getting into these pants, nope nope. Already an asshole in there.’ And then he cackles, which thoroughly undermines what would have been a not-that-terrible burn. 

Derek cocks an eyebrow at Neanderthal-man and positions himself slightly between them, so the guy is forced to back up a little. ‘Well? You heard him. Get lost.’ 

The guy, whose t shirt has a V neck that dips to the navel, smirks at Derek with thin lips. ‘You his boyfriend?’ His eyes flicker down over Derek’s chest and linger at his crotch. ‘Wouldn’t be opposed to getting in on some of that action…’ 

‘Y’hear that, Der-bear?’ Stiles mumbles. ‘This train wreck thinks we’re his station!’ 

Derek takes half a step further between Stiles and the Missing Link, slowly folding his arms across his chest. The guy is cut, but Derek has martial arts training and rage in his corner. ‘I’m gonna repeat this because I assume you couldn’t hear me over the sound of your knuckles dragging on the floor… Fuck. Off.’

The Missing Link’s nostrils flare. ‘Hey, come on, man! Can’t blame a guy for trying. I just thought he might wanna put his pretty mouth to good use…’ 

Derek’s had it. Fury burns up through him as he grabs a handful of shitty V neck and lifts the guy up off his feet, hissing, ‘Small objects are choking hazards, asshole. Now get outta here before I lose my temper.’ 

He lets go of the shirt, letting the guy stumble backwards and away into the crowd. He’s bitching Derek and Stiles out pretty loudly but Derek doesn’t give a single shit. 

‘You okay?’ He turns back to Stiles, who is leaning against the wall, watching him with wide eyes. ‘Did he touch you?’ Fuck. Maybe Stiles is scared of him, now. Maybe he went too far. Maybe he’s annoyed as fuck because Derek stuck his nose all up in his business and-

‘Holy shit,’ Stiles breathes, pupils blown. ‘That was so fucking hot.’

Derek can’t seem to look away from Stiles’ beautiful eyes, and he can’t think of anything to say – or any words at all, for some reason – so he and Stiles end up with just looking at each other for a long moment that feels thick and charged with _something._

‘However!’ Stiles announces gravely, ‘I do need to puke. Like, immediately.’ 

Derek helps him stagger to the bathroom, the moment thoroughly lost, and then waits outside to give Stiles the illusion of maintaining a little of his dignity. Scott finds him where he waits. 

‘Yo boss-man, you seen Stiles anywhere? Me and Isaac wanna head out.’ 

Derek jerks his thumb back toward to bathroom. ‘In there, regretting his poor decisions.’

Scott’s face falls. ‘Aw, shit. I thought this might happen when he bought those shots. Stiles is a lightweight at the best of times but shots are fucking lethal. I better let Isaac know I need to take a rain-check on tonight,’ he sighs. 

‘I can take Stiles home,’ Derek says, before internally glaring at himself in horror. 

‘Yeah?’ Scott’s face splits into the sunniest grin Derek has ever seen. ‘That would be so awesome! You’re the best, boss! And the best boss! The best boss, boss! Here…’ He shoves his phone in Derek’s face. ‘Put in your number and I’ll text you our address in case Pukey McWastedface can’t remember it…’

Derek punches it in reluctantly. ‘You send me one cat video and I’ll shove your phone so far up your ass you’ll have two adams apples.’ 

Scott blanches a little. ‘Understood.’

He stands there awkwardly for a minute, until Derek clicks his tongue impatiently. ‘Go, Scott! Go right your long record of blow job wrongs. Before I change my mind.’ 

‘Going!’ Scott squeaks, disappearing into the crowd like an overexcited puppy.

After a couple more minutes, Stiles appears. He looks pale but a little more together, his shirt damp at the collar and cuffs where he’s washed up.

‘Come on,’ Derek says. ‘Time to get you home.’ 

Luckily the car lot of the restaurant is only a block or so from the club, and Stiles seems to mostly be able to walk unaided now, though he doesn't stray far from Derek's side. Derek finds he doesn't mind, but he shoves his hands in his jeans pockets anyway to stop himself from losing his mind and trying to hold Stiles' hand.

The night air is warm and sticky, and heavily scented with something floral – frangipani maybe, Derek thinks. His dad would have known. 

‘So, uh, thanks for stepping in, back there…’ Stiles says eventually, fiddling with his cuffs uncomfortably. ‘With that guy.’ 

‘It was nothing.’ Derek shrugs. 

‘You know last year I might have been into that. Last year was the year of fuckboys and bad decisions,’ he laughs awkwardly. ‘This year’s different.’

Derek doesn’t really know what to say, and by the time he realises he should probably ask why, the silence has gone on so long that anything he says now will sound inane. 

It doesn’t matter, though, because as soon as Stiles sees his car he makes enough noise to rouse a small, sleeping country. 

‘It’s soooo pretty, Derek!’ he coos, running his hands over the hood. 

‘Stop touching it,’ Derek responds automatically. 

‘Never!’ Stiles declares, before whispering to the car, ‘Don’t worry, beautiful. I won’t let the bad man come between us.’ 

Fucking ridiculous. 

Derek huffs and rolls his eyes and practically manhandles Stiles into the car, where Stiles immediately pours himself over the leather interior like syrup. ‘Ooohhh,’ he moans when the engine rumbles to life, which has an embarrassing effect on Derek’s libido and nearly makes him crash the car. 

By the time he’s gotten himself back under control, he looks over to find that Stiles is asleep in the bucket seat, drooling gently over the leather. It’s just as well Scott sent Derek the address. 

Scott and Stiles’ place isn’t too far away – but then again, Beacon Hills isn’t all that big, so everything is close, relatively speaking. It’s a little red brick house, which Derek hadn’t really been expecting for some reason. Then he remembers Stiles saying that they’re house sitting for some parents of a friend this summer, to save on rent. 

‘Stiles.’ He pokes Stiles in the arm.

Stiles snores blissfully back. 

‘Stiles.’ He pokes him again.

Nothing.

‘STILES!’

Stiles’ whole body does a crazy, jerky sort of spasm, starting at his feet and ending with his head, which he peels off of the leather of the seat-back before glaring over at Derek blearily.

‘Shh,’ he hisses, crossly. _‘Stiles is sleeping.’_

Derek gives him the very flattest look he can muster. ‘Stiles will be sleeping on the sidewalk if he doesn’t get his ass out of my car.’ 

Stiles frowns deeply at him. ‘You’re mean.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Derek says. ‘Duh.’ 

Jesus, he hasn’t said ‘duh’ since he was seventeen, what is this kid doing to him?

Stiles manages to peel himself off of the car seat and tumble out onto the sidewalk, but he does so with very bad grace, muttering darkly the entire time. 

Derek ignores him in favour of herding him towards the front door and helping him with the door key when Stiles fails, for the fifth time, to get it anywhere close to the lock. 

Stiles heads straight for the living room and face-plants onto the sofa, and is snoring again within seconds. 

Derek reluctantly takes Stiles’ shoes off, cursing himself out the whole time for even getting into this situation. He slips into the kitchen to grab a glass of water for Stiles. The inside of the house is basic and nondescript, except for a stack of textbooks on the dining table and a pair of weird slippers tucked in by the floral sofa. They look like the sort of 3D cartoon character slippers that kids have, only they’re little old men. 

‘Stiles…’ he shakes him by the shoulder a little. ‘Drink this and then I can leave.’ 

Stiles sighs a little and turns his head, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. He mutters something that sounds a lot like ‘How can someone so pretty be so fucking cruel?’

‘You’re such a fucking pain in the ass.’ Derek hopes Stiles is drunk enough not to register the fondness in his tone. Stiles just grunts so he figures he got away with it. ‘Hey, Stiles…’

‘Wuh?’

‘What the fuck are these slippers meant to be?’

Stiles sighs happily, and Derek’s now not at all sure that he’s actually awake any more. ‘Slippers…’ He mumbles. ‘They’re muh Freudian slippers.’ 

Derek bites back a laugh. ‘Only a Psych major would have Freudian slippers…’

Sleepy Stiles makes a small noise of consternation. ‘M’not a psych major…’

‘No?’

‘Nuh-uh. M’a rockstar!’

‘Ah.’ Derek smiles despite himself. 

‘Y’know Derek?’ sleeping Stiles asks suddenly. 

‘Sorta, yeah.’

‘Mmm. S’really hot.’

Derek’s head starts to pound and his mouth is cotton-dry, and is he stays here any longer he might do something stupid like kiss a barely conscious, drunk, vomity guy on the cheek, so he jumps up and grabs himself some water as well. 

He drinks it slowly, reading the post-it notes on the fridge, feeling like a massive creeper. The notes are equally stupid and endearing. 

_‘Scott, you left us alone and undefended. Alas, we are no more. – Cookies’_

_‘Gone to the store – didn’t wake you b/c you were sleeping and your butt was out’_

_'Dude - fed the cat. You're welcome.'_

_'Dude - we don't have a cat.'_

_'Dude - well shit. I better stop feeding it, then.'_

Little cartoon slices of toast, one winking with a speech bubble saying _‘I loaf you’_ in Scott’s writing, followed by _‘You butter believe it’_ in Stiles ragged scrawl’. 

Derek has the weirdest urge to write something on a post-it note and stick it up on the fridge with the others, just to be a little part of this comfortable domesticity. He resists.

Below the casual notes are several post-it stuck together, one letter on each in thick, dark pen, spelling out ‘STILES CALL MATT’ and then on a single post it to the side, ‘Matt says call him Saturday when you get back, as soon as you’re done not texting him. I think he’s mad, bro…’ punctuated with a sad face. 

Derek peels the post-it off the fridge and takes it back to the living room, sitting on the coffee table so he can carefully sticks the post-it to Stiles’ forehead. 

Stiles makes a weird ‘mrph’ sound and then reaches up and grabs Derek’s hand, holding it to his cheek. In an unexpectedly raspy voice which does weird things to Derek’s stomach, he says, ‘Y’should stay.’

Derek’s stomach flips. He ignores it.

‘You were supposed to call Matt,’ Derek says gently, since he’s still not sure if Stiles is awake.

Stiles wrinkles his upturned, adorable nose. ‘Fuck.’

Derek hesitates, since he’s not entirely sure he wants to know, but in the he can’t stop himself from asking, ‘Who’s Matt?’

‘Mmm.’ Stiles nuzzles into his palm. Derek sort of wants to keep him there. ‘Matt’s, uh… Hmm. He’s m’person…’ he yawns out. And then any remaining consciousness dissolves into tiny snores.

Ah. A boyfriend. Derek should have known. 

Although in fairness, one might have expected Stiles Never-Stops-Talking-Like-Ever-Dear-God-Why-Is-He-Still-Talking Stilinski to have mentioned a boyfriend, at some point before now. 

Derek sits there for a minute, watching his face go lax in sleep. His chest feels weird and heavy, but he supposes it’s better to know now than later down the line. And it’s not like anything could have happened, anyway. For one thing, Stiles has never shown any particular interest in Derek other than remarking on his looks. And Stiles remarks on everyone's looks (he calls Scott his 'handsome chunk of man-flesh'), so it's hard to know if there's anything to it. Derek suspects not. 

Well, he _knows_ , now. 

He allows himself one rueful sigh. Slowly, he draws his hand out from under Stiles’ cheek, and as quietly as he can, he leaves Stiles and his Freudian slippers in peace. 

*

On Sunday night, back at work, he’s on his way to the cam room when he almost trips over Stiles, who is backing out of the break room. 

‘For the last time, Stiles, you are not patrolling with an axe!’ Boyd’s detached, irritated voice floats out after him. 

Stiles' mouth drops open in consternation. ‘But, but… It’s all like, dark, and creepy outside! There might be zombies!’

There’s an unimpressed pause. ‘You’re a grown-ass man,’ Boyd says. ‘You don’t need an axe to walk around an empty site. Grow up!’ 

Stiles flails his hands around. ‘But… ZOMBIES!’

Boyd appears in the doorway, his face preternaturally calm. ‘There’s no such thing as zombies, Stilinski. Now get lost and do your patrol!’ 

Stiles does the frowny, pouty thing that makes Derek’s stomach twist. ‘Fine!’ He huffs. ‘But if I get all zombified because I didn’t have an axe I’m gonna come straight back here and gnaw your face off!’

‘Don’t zombies eat brains?’ Derek interjects, making Stiles jump.

‘Yeah…’ 

‘I’d say you’re safe, then.’ Derek smirks a little as he side-steps Stiles, whose cheeks have puffed up like an outraged hamster.

‘Yo, Boss-man!’ There’s the squeak of shoes on tile, and then a warm hand wraps around his bicep. ‘Wait up! Scotty said you brought my sorry ass home on Saturday night…’ Stiles is pink-cheeked and Derek tells himself it isn’t cute. 

Boyd’s head pops back out of the break room. ‘Wait… Did you go to Derek’s place? _No-one_ goes to Derek’s place.’

‘What?! No fair, I wanna go to Derek’s place!’ Erica whines, sidling out from behind Boyd. 

‘Pipe down, minions,’ Derek says sternly. ‘None of you have been or will be going to my place. I took Tweedle-dumb to his own place where he promptly passed out in a pool of his own drool. End of anecdote.’ 

Boyd and Erica retreat, grumbling, into the depths of the tiny linoleum covered hell from whence they came.

Stiles nods. ‘Right. So.’ He reaches out like he’s about to touch Derek’s arm again. ‘Thanks.’ 

Derek briefly considers asking about Matt, but he doesn't know how he'd explain away his sudden interest in Stiles' personal life. 

Instead he nods at him shortly. ‘No problem. Now shuffle off on patrol, Zombielinski.’ 

Stiles ducks his head and grins, then mock-salutes him and does indeed shuffle off.

Derek doesn’t watch him leave, even as Stiles’ voice from Saturday echoes through his head (‘You going to the bar, Boss-Man? I hate to see you go, but I _love_ to watch you leave!’). 

He shakes the voice from his head. 

It’s just a little, insignificant crush. Stiles isn’t even here for that much longer, then he goes back to finish off college. And then he'll head out into the world, and Derek will be here.

Nothing has really changed. 

Nothing _will_ change. Derek won’t let it. 

Derek has built his life like this for a reason. In a few weeks Stiles will leave and everything will be exactly the same as it always was. 

Stable.

Safe. 

Just the way Derek likes it. 

In the cam room, Isaac turns and hands him a mug of fresh coffee, with a beatific grin - clearly in a very good mood after the weekend's activities. Scott's track record must have taken a turn for the better, Derek presumes. 

He glances down at the coffee mug in his hand, the cracks from whatever torture Hurricane Stiles had put it through still faintly visible, spidering out across the glaze.

Everything will be the same… almost.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this kinda got away from me. 
> 
> This is mostly about spilled drinks. I had plans for plot and stuff, but ehh. Maybe next chapter... :) 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with it, you lovely lovely people!
> 
> P.S. I have the flu atm so apologies in advance for any typos or nonsensical ramblings!

The dual realisations of a) Derek’s baffling crush on Stiles and b) Stiles having a _person_ (for some inexplicable reason, it feels even more unbearably intimate to Derek than if Stiles had used the word ‘boyfriend’) have surprisingly little effect on Derek’s day to day life. 

He gets up, works out, calls one sister or the other, goes to work, and then home to bed. 

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

Stiles remains his usual consistently erratic self, equal parts infuriating and endearing, which Derek does a fairly good job of ignoring. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

If, in the privacy of his office, when there are no eyes or ears nearby, he sighs over Stiles as much out of wistful longing as he does out of irritation over whatever stupid thing Stiles is currently up to, well then no one else needs to know that. 

Even if he sometimes catches Boyd giving him shrewd little sideways glances like he knows _everything._

Fucker. 

Towards the end of the week, when Derek is trying to muster up enthusiasm at the upcoming Stiles-less weekend rather than the weird, dull ache in his stomach that the prospect actually elicits, he grabs his usual post-break coffee (in the mug he’s now more attached to than ever, though he’d never admit it) and settles down into his sacred office chair to make inroads into the large pile of paperwork spilling out of his in-tray. He’s just managed to bring the computer whirring to life by viciously jabbing at the keyboard and muttering threats at it, when a voice down by his ankles says, casually, ‘Hey, Boss-Man.’ 

Derek makes an involuntary noise that’s embarrassingly close to a shriek and leaps to his feet, spilling lukewarm coffee down his front. 

_’Fuck!’_ he hisses, brushing at the front of his shirt. Somewhere below him, stretched out on the floor beneath the desk, is Stiles, looking for all the world like the floor is a perfectly normal place for him to be at stupid o’clock on a Thursday morning.

‘Sorry if I scared you there, Boss-Man,’ he says lightly. 

Derek scoffs. ‘You didn’t. Don’t be stupid.’ 

Stiles wrinkles his nose. ‘Really? Cos it sure seemed like I did. Y’know, with the way you screamed’n’all.’ 

‘No! No. Shut up.’ Derek can feel the heat of humiliation creeping up the back of his neck but he resists the urge to rub at it sheepishly. He won’t show weakness; he did not scream. He’s a grown-up, martial-arts trained _badass_ and he absolutely _did not scream._ So. He pitches his voice a couple of notches deeper than usual, just to reinforce his point. ‘I didn’t scream. Absolutely not.’

Stiles quirks a brow. ‘So that was… what? Your best attempt at some sort of ultrasonic acoustic defence weapon?’ 

Derek sniffs in a withering way. ‘Yeah, and if you listened half as much as you talk you’d be thoroughly incapacitated right now.’ 

‘Always knew you were deadly, Boss-man,’ Stiles says with a laugh. ‘Hey, that would be an epic band name, right? The Deadly Scream.’ 

‘It was _not_ a scream,’ Derek repeats in irritation. 

‘Whatever you say, Mr Boss-Man, Sir!’ Stiles salutes, but make no attempt to otherwise move from his position prone on the floor, which, it strikes Derek, is an unusual place to be even for Stiles. 

‘Hey, Stiles?’

‘Yeah, Boss?’ Stiles beams winningly up at Derek, folding his arms beneath his head.

‘Why the fuck are you on the floor under my desk?’

‘Ah. Well.’ Stiles wriggles out a little and scoots up into a sitting position, which puts his face about three inches from Derek’s crotch, which just, no, so Derek immediately hunkers down onto his haunches to get his crotch a safe distance away. Unfortunately it puts his own face three inches from Stiles, but Derek is a master of self-control so it’s all good. He can absolutely ignore the way Stiles smells really nice, and how soft his hair looks. Not a problem. 

What was he even down here for again? Oh, right. Stiles under the desk. 

He clears his throat. 

‘Some elaborate plan to get revenge on my attack chair?’ Derek guesses, but Stiles shakes his head no.

‘Well then what did you do, Tweedledumber?’ 

Stiles chuffs indignantly. ‘I don’t see why I have to have _done_ anything. Can’t a guy just, ya know, hang out? Get a little down time. I might have been _meditating_ for all you know.’ 

Derek stares at him expectantly. 

Stiles sighs. ‘Fine. I pranked Erica and now I’m on the run.’ 

‘You idiot.’ Derek gets to his feet and nudges Stiles’ thigh with the toe of his boot. ‘Get up, I’m not getting caught harbouring a fugitive!’ 

‘But Dereeeek,’ Stiles whines pitifully. ‘Nowhere is safe! She’s gone all Hunger Games on my ass! She hid in the fridge and jumped out at me when I went to get the milk! When I went to the bathroom she was waiting outside the door dressed up like that girl from The Ring! Why does she even _have_ the costume for that at work? Thank fuck I’d already peed or I’d have needed a change of underwear. I swear to god I’ve had like three minor cardiac events today already.’ 

‘What did you do to her?’ Derek settles back down in his chair, shifting Stiles out of the way very gradually with his boot-toe. 

‘Nothing that bad!’ Stiles’ mouth twists uncertainly.

Derek casts an unconvinced glance in Stiles’ direction. 

Stiles pouts. ‘I might’ve covered her desk in paper cups that I stapled to each other. And then I filled them all with water.’

Derek frowns. ‘How many cups?’ 

‘Like… forty-five... forty-six…’ Stiles mumbles, flailing a hand around vaguely.

‘Then you deserve everything you get,’ Derek says, holding back a laugh. ‘Everyone knows you don’t mess with Erica or Lydia.'

‘I know, but I think Erica’s extra scary right now because Greenberg’s still home sick. She has no other outlet for her rampant nerfariousness!’ 

‘Ideal time to poke the bear, then,’ Derek says wryly, grabbing for a wad of tissues and swiping ineffectually at his soaked shirt. 

‘Oh shit, did I make you spill that?’ Stiles scrambles to his knees and fumbles for more tissues, scrubbing at Derek’s chest. ‘Sorry, dude.’ 

‘Don’t call me dude,’ Derek says absently, staring down at the spread of Stiles’ pale fingers, luminous over the black of his uniform shirt. He glances back up at Stiles’ face to find his eyelashes thick and velvety across his cheekbones as he keeps his eyes lowered to Derek’s chest in concentration while he dabs… And dabs… And dabs… And shows no signs of stopping.

‘Uh, Stiles?’ Derek ventures after about three full minutes of Stiles pressing his hand against his chest. ‘I think you got it.’ 

‘Oh…’ Stiles drops his hands, a beautiful blush stealing up his throat from under the collar of his shirt. ‘Right. Sure. It’s just a…’ He clears his throat. ‘A nice shirt, is all. Shame to ruin it.’ 

‘Right.’ 

‘Uh, so…’ Stiles rises to his feet, which Derek is relieved about until he perches his ass on the edge of Derek’s desk sparking some very unprofessional, un-work-related thoughts. ‘If you won’t let me hide here until Erica forgives me, or the end of time, whichever comes soonest, can you help me out another way?’ 

Derek sighs. At this point, with the warmth of Stiles’ hands still sinking into his skin, he’s willing to consider most anything to get Stiles off his desk and out of his office before he pins him down and explores exactly where that blush starts and ends. ‘How.’ 

Stiles rests his palms on Derek’s desk and leans back, putting his weight on them. ‘It’s recently become clear to me that if my mischief game is to remain this strong, then I really ought to up my running game. And, uh. You look like a guy who's got… game…’ His eyes flicker over Derek’s face and he looks… almost bashful. ‘Uh, what I mean is, um… could you show me some of the running trails around here?’ 

Visions of Stiles in running shorts flash through Derek’s head. Stiles _sweaty_ and _panting_ and… no. No, no, no.

‘No.’

‘Aw come on, Boss-Man! Please?’ Stiles leans forward earnestly. ‘My new-found super speed will be an asset to your company!’ 

Derek eyes him doubtfully. ‘I really don’t think you’ll improve that much in the few weeks you have left.’ 

‘Rude. Try me. Anyway… I mostly just need a reason to get out of the house and far away while Scott and Isaac get down. Seriously, those two are _loud._ I will _never_ look at a scarf the same way.’ 

Derek’s not sure what makes him give in and nod - maybe it’s the amount of wheedle Stiles injects into his tone, maybe it’s the haunted look in those big, brown eyes – but he immediately regrets it when Boyd sticks his head around the door-frame in search of Stiles, and Stiles says, ‘Here, Boyd-Man! Just been hanging out under the desk, making Derek scream…’ 

‘Really now?’ Boyd narrows his eyes knowingly at Derek, because he’s a dick.

‘Don’t give yourself so much credit, Tweedledumber,’ Derek says, stabbing at the keyboard with his index fingers to cover his embarrassment. ‘It was a yelp, at most.’ 

Stiles just grins his infuriating grin, and grabs a pad and pen, scribbling something down haphazardly and then sliding the pad back over to Derek. It’s his phone number, sprawled over the page messily – honestly it looks more like an ECG than handwriting, and Derek’s heart thumps erratically along in tandem at the sight of it. ‘Text me your address, Boss-Man. I’ll meet you at yours at three this afternoon?’ 

Derek grunts in affirmation, not trusting his voice to hold steady if he tries for actual words. 

He ignores the heat of Boyd’s gaze in favour of attacking his paperwork with renewed fervour. Lydia asked him to do it and, unlike Stiles, he doesn’t have a death-wish. 

‘Come on, Stilinski, I need you to patrol outside,’ Boyd starts to usher Stiles from the room. ‘And let me know if you find Erica, will you? I passed her in the hall an hour ago and I haven’t seen her since. She was muttering something about punji sticks…’ 

Stiles visibly pales and follows Boyd out of the door like he’s heading to his own execution, which, yeah, fair. 

Derek shakes his head and wonders how the fuck his life has come to this. 

*

‘Oh my god…’ Stiles doubles over to brace his hands on his knees, dragging huge lungfuls of air into his heaving chest.

Derek rolls his eyes, jogging on the spot to stay loose. ‘Okay there, Tweedledumber?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Stiles gasps out, his face contorting into a variety of ridiculous expressions all of which essentially fall into the ‘fucking wrecked’ category. ‘Except I’m ninety-five per cent sure I’m about to shit out my heart…’ 

Derek laughs, tipping his face back slightly to enjoy the feel of the sun on his skin, dappling through the leaves of the trees. ‘You’ll be alright.’

‘We’ve got like a mile left, right?’ Stiles asks, shading his eyes with his hand as he squints over at Derek. It’s mid-afternoon and the heat of midday still hugs the Preserve, soft and thick, leaving them both drenched in sweat.

‘Yeah,’ Derek confirms, a little surprised at how fast Stiles has learned the routes around the Preserve. They’ve been out running together almost every day since they began the previous week, but Derek has been mixing up the trails to keep it interesting. 

Stiles is a fast learner, though, and tenacious with it – if left up to him they’d have run on the Monday that Derek insisted be set aside as a rest day, too. His stubbornness makes up for his lack of technique, although he’s clearly improved since his ‘bag of spanners’ days. He also seems to be too busy studying Derek’s running technique to talk as much as usual, so they mostly spend their runs in companionable silence. It’s surprisingly nice. 

Today, however, the heat is oppressive, and Derek kicks himself for not picking a shorter route. 

‘Here…’ he thrusts his water bottle at Stiles, who accepts it gratefully. Derek watches the muscles in his long, sweat-damp throat work as he downs about half of it.

‘Are you still jogging right now?’ Stiles asks in disbelief, once he’s wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm. ‘Fucking hell. How are you even sweating attractively? I look like a meerkat that’s been through a spin cycle. Do you have, like, secret classes for hot people in high school, or is there some ‘sexy in every situation’ genetic marker I missed out on?’

Derek huffs out a laugh to stop himself from replying that if there is such a gene, Stiles definitely has it (because it’s surely the only explanation for him managing to be sexy even when doing air quotations). ‘Don’t be stupid. Come on.’

Stiles groans but falls into step beside him, and they jog the rest of the way back to the junk-heap of a jeep that Stiles picks him up in. It’s another point in Stiles’ favour that he hardly mentions the fact that Derek waits for him by the curb every day to avoid Stiles coming near his house, and he never ever invites Stiles in afterwards. 

When Stiles had dropped him back home after their first run, Derek had paused awkwardly by the car door, unsure how to articulate himself without seeming rude. But Stiles hadn’t moved to exit the car, had instead only shrugged and said easily, ‘I get it dude, no worries. Your home is your castle, right? My mom was the same. You know my dad hired a cleaner to come around twice a week and she’d clean frantically for like three hours before she got there so she wouldn’t think badly of us.’ 

Derek had nodded, grateful that Stiles wasn’t offended, even though that really isn’t the reason he doesn’t let people into his home, but he wasn’t about to explain that to Stiles.

So Stiles drops him home again, taking off with a cheery wave, and as Derek eases himself into a blissfully cool shower, he ponders the fact that running with Stiles really hasn’t been so bad after all. 

He even finds himself looking forward to it, accidentally smiling for no reason one night during the team briefing, which Erica pounces on like a cat on a mouse. 

‘Derek…’ She says, tapping her pen against the table thoughtfully. ‘You look happy. Why do you look happy?’

Derek frowns, immediate and ferocious. 

‘Oh no, Hale!’ She laughs. ‘That’s not gonna fool me! You very nearly almost smiled, I saw it!’

Derek shrugs. ‘So?’ 

‘So?’ Erica’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘For you that’s like, euphoric happiness! And I’m nosy so I wanna know the reason why! So shoot. Come on, we're all friends here!’

Derek rolls his eyes, crosses his arms over his chest, and keeps his mouth firmly shut.

‘Ooh he’s being coy,’ she stage-whispers to Boyd. ‘Do we think it’s something romantical?' She waggles her eyebrows suggestively before squeaking, 'Oh my god, please tell me it’s Pablo!’ 

Out of the corner of his eye, Derek can see Stiles’ head swivel in his direction so fast he’s surprised it doesn’t fly off his neck. 

‘Okay,' Derek says affably. 'It’s Pablo.’ Then he smirks because he's sort of an asshole. 

Erica pouts. ‘Well now I don’t believe you! Come on Derek, ‘fess up! Is Pablo back to sweep you off your massive, hairy feet?’ 

‘Um, who is Pablo?’ Stiles says, face contorting around the name like he’s saying something distasteful. Derek folds his hands in front of him, willing Erica to shut up. 

‘Pablo is an underwear model from Rio who speaks four languages and plays the mandolin,’ Erica says, keeping her eyes trained on Derek. ‘He’s also Derek’s ex.’ 

Stiles chokes on a mouthful of soda. Scott seems surprisingly concerned by this, slinging an arm around his shoulders to pat at his back, which Derek thinks is odd considering how often Stiles seems to have trouble eating and drinking like a normal person. You'd think he'd have been used to it by now. 

‘So basically your ex-boyfriend is a walking Harlequin novel?’ Stiles says raspily, once he’s done coughing. 

‘No,’ Derek says steadily. ‘I wouldn’t call him a boyfriend... He was just a…’ He gropes around for the right word until Erica interjects with, 

‘Fuck! He’s an ex-fuck.’ 

Somewhere at the edge of his vision, Derek is vaguely aware of Scott fanning Stiles with something, which he again chalks up to their innate weirdness. 

‘Whatever,’ Derek says impatiently. ‘Not an ex-boyfriend. And no, Erica, he’s not in the picture again. Last I heard he was in an infinity pool in Sardinia with some hipster artist called Axl with no ‘e’.’

If he sounds entirely unmoved by that well, it's because he is. Pablo had been nice enough, but he hadn't had any lasting impact on Derek's life, and neither had his departure. Derek had actually been relieved about not having to find another excuse not to invite Pablo to his place.

‘Oh…’ Erica looks disappointed. ‘Shame. He was such a nice addition to our crowd at the pool party last summer.’ 

‘I bet…’ Stiles mutters darkly, yipping a little when Scott jabs him in the thigh with a finger.

‘Now if we’re done dragging my past out of the closet…’ Derek rolls his eyes as Stiles starts to choke again, wondering idly if they ought not look into some sort of IV situation for him since he seems utterly incapable of delivering liquid to his mouth without incident. ‘Can we get on with the shift?’

*

The next day’s run feels oddly awkward – and not just because they’re joined on their circuit by two random dogs who’ve slipped their leashes in order to have enthusiastic al fresco sex in every part of the Preserve.

Derek waits for a while in case Stiles cheers up, but at the halfway point his shoulders are still slumped and he seems introspective, which is genuinely not a thing Derek thought Stiles was capable of.

‘What’s up with you today?’ Derek asks as they jog, stoically ignoring the frantically humping canines off in his peripheral vision, which would be weird even if it were two dogs of a similar breed. As it is, the little cream-puff of a Bichon Frise currently showing a large-boned Rottweiler the time of her life is highly distracting, especially given the baleful eye contact the Bichon seems determined to maintain with Derek at all times. Derek's pretty sure this was all the Rottweiler's idea - the Bichon seems like he'd prefer to be on a silken pillow somewhere private right now so there can be cuddling after. 

‘Nothing's up!’ Stiles says, bright and false. ‘I’m good! All good. All good in the hooood…’ He follows this with a strange arm spasm that Derek thinks might've been intended to be a dance move.

Derek gives him the flattest look he can muster while jogging. ‘Stiles.’

Stiles sighs and draws to a halt, pushing a hand through his hair. ‘It’s really nothing. I just… Look it’s sort of embarrassing, but uh. I sorta… Thought you were straight.’ 

Derek frowns. ‘Okay?’

‘I just…' Stiles chews on his lower lip. 'My gaydar is historically excellent, okay? I was worried I’d gotten you all wrong.’ 

‘Not really. I’m not gay,’ Derek says, chugging some water. ‘I’ve had girlfriends, too. I’m just… whatever I am.’ Cora has asked if he’s demi-romantic, in the past, but Derek hasn’t particularly felt the need to put a label on himself. He’s mostly content with acting on his physical attractions where appropriate, and never letting it get emotional. 

Not after Kate. 

‘Oh,’ Stiles says, toeing at the ground. He’s still not really meeting Derek’s eyes, and Derek still doesn’t really get why Stiles is being weird about it, not when he has a _person_ of his own, but whatever. Stiles is weird about a lot of things. ‘That’s… yeah,’ Stiles says eventually. ‘That makes sense. Scott’s bi, so. Well actually I’m pretty sure he’s Isaac-sexual these days.’ He grins, and looks much more like his usual self, which loosens something in Derek’s chest. 

They start moving again, walking rather than running so they can still talk. The dogs have thankfully moved their kinky activities to another part of the Preserve, presumably somewhere with a larger audience. 

‘Sorry I got, like, strange about it,’ Stiles says after a while. ‘It just hit me, uh, how little I actually know about you.’ 

Derek considers this. It's probably fair. He knows he’s not an easy person to get a handle on. ‘I used to live here, in the Preserve,’ he offers up. ‘My family home is here. ‘Til there was a fire. It’s gone now.’ He’s not sure why he’s giving this little piece of himself over to Stiles. He typically doesn’t share anything of himself with people he barely knows, but this feels different, just the two of them, here together in the woods where he grew up.

‘Oh, man…’ Stiles murmurs. ‘I’m so sorry. Was, uh… I mean did everyone…?’

Derek shakes his head. ‘My parents died. I was at school with my sisters when it happened, so.’

‘Shit,’ Stiles says. ‘I feel like I guilted you into telling me that, you know you can just tell me to fuck off any time, right?’

‘It’s fine,’ Derek cuts him off. ‘I’m surprised no-one’s told you all about it already, honestly.’

‘Little bits and pieces,’ Stiles admits. ‘Someone said, uh. It was your ex-girlfriend who set the fire. I just… man, I can’t even imagine all the ways that’s gotta fuck a dude up.’

All Derek can manage is a terse nod.

‘Aw fuck, I’m sorry.’ Stiles stops and sort of kicks at the ground in frustration with himself. ‘I lost my mom when I was nine, so I sorta know how rough it can be. I didn’t mean to put my foot in my mouth. I mean I guess I should expect it by now, I’m sort of famous for it. I can pretty much tie my shoelaces with my uvula at this point.’

Derek’s jaw works as he tries to swallow down the lump that suddenly appears in his throat. ‘It's not like you’re wrong,’ he eventually forces out. ‘But she’s in jail and it was a long time ago. I’ve… moved on.’ He can’t help but flick his gaze over to Stiles, whose eyes are wide and warm and sympathetic. 

Usually he hates getting sympathetic looks, but Stiles doesn’t make him feel pathetic or helpless, just cared for. 

‘Moved on to Pablo the Harlequin hero?’ Stiles asks with a soft, almost shy smile, poking Derek lightly in the ribs as he falls back into step with him. 

Derek laughs, letting the tension release from his shoulders. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

‘Sorta, yeah…’ Stiles scrunches up his face adorably.

‘Tell you what…’ Derek lengthens his strides until he’s a few feet ahead and turns until he’s running backwards. ‘I’ll let you have three questions… Whatever you want… _If_ you beat me back to the car.’ 

Stiles’ grin turns wicked as he kicks his strides up a gear. ‘Oh you’re on!’

Derek wins, in the end, but Stiles gives it his best shot, touching his fingertips to the warm metal of the chassis just a few seconds after Derek, before he collapses onto the floor in an ungainly heap.

‘You’re gonna be the death of me, Hale!’ He gasps out, reaching for the bottle that’s clipped to the belt around his waist. 

The words send an unpleasant little shiver down Derek’s spine. If only Stiles knew… 

A vision of Kate's face flashes up in his consciousness, still beautiful even through an ugly sneer. His stomach twists with years-old guilt. His family should be alive - _would_ be alive right now, if Derek had protected them better. If he'd been less selfish, more vigilant. If he'd spotted the snake in their midst before it was too late. Derek's instincts aren't to be trusted, and neither are most people - he's abundantly clear on that point. Ultimately it's just not worth the risk of getting attached to people, most of the time. 

He’s distracted from his morbid thoughts by a loud squawk and a hissing noise, which turns out to be Stiles opening the bottle which sprays him liberally with foamy liquid.

‘What the hell?’ Derek asks, jaw hanging open as the liquid fountains up over Stiles, leaving him drenched and gasping like a guppy, and very distinctly blue. 

_‘Fuck,_ that’s cold!’ Stiles declares, rivulets of liquid running down his face. ‘Gatorade.’

 _’Why?’_

‘Thought it might give me an edge…’ Stiles hops up and grabs the front of his shirt – originally white and now streaked with turquoise – to twist it, ringing out Gatorade all over the ground below. ‘Clearly I didn’t think through the effect of a brisk run on the carbonation…’

And Derek… all Derek can do is lean back against the car and laugh long and loud, the sound echoing through the Preserve. 

‘Shut up and help me, asshole!’ Stiles says petulantly, though his lips curve up like he’s holding back a smile. 

‘Here…’ Derek throws a towel from the back seat at him, and rummages around in his backpack to find his spare tee. He tries and fails not to watch Stiles’ reflection in the car window as he strips his sodden t shirt off and towels off his hair, before shrugging Derek’s shirt on. His shoulders fill it out in a surprisingly satisfying way, though the fabric hangs looser around his slender waist. The black is faded from frequent washing, and the neck and cuffs are worn, but still Stiles looks… 

Derek swallows hard and tries to think unsexy thoughts. 

Politicians.

The over-amorous dogs that had clearly chosen the Preserve as their honeymoon destination.

Someone denting his camaro.

_GreenbergGreenbergGreenberg._

By the time he gets himself under control, Stiles looks almost normal, if not a little sticky around the edges.

‘I can’t decide,’ Stiles says, wrenching open the driver’s side door, ‘if I’m more pissed about the Gatorade thing, or about not getting the deets on Pablo’s fingering skills…’

‘Excuse me?’ Derek twists around to face him, a little shocked.

‘What?’ Stiles’ face is the very picture of blue-tinged, sticky innocence. ‘Erica said he played the mandolin!’ 

‘Oh my god.’ Derek laughs a little and rolls down the window to enjoy the breeze through his hair as Stiles drives home, chuntering bitchily under his breath about this and that. Derek is fairly sure he hears the name ‘Pablo’ in there a few times. The air between them feels lighter, more comfortable, and Derek feels like maybe, even though they can’t be more, maybe they can at least be friends even after Stiles has to leave. It’s a nice feeling. Derek relaxes into the seat for the twenty minutes or so it takes to get back home, lulled into a drowsy half-consciousness by the low hum of Stiles’ voice.

Stiles draws the jeep to a halt at the curb as usual, leaving the engine running as Derek hops out and grabs his stuff. He salutes Stiles goodbye, but as he turns towards the door of his building he remembers that his sunglasses are still sitting on the passenger seat. ‘Shoot,’ he says, leaning down toward Stiles’ window, ‘I forgot my glasses.’

Stiles rolls his eyes and turns to grab them. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he says - he's scrabbling around uselessly, so Derek huffs and leans in through the open window to reach over him - ‘they were a gift from Pabl-'

Derek isn’t entirely sure what happens – Stiles must have turned his head back towards Derek at the exact moment Derek reaches across Stiles, and it’s sort of dark inside the car, especially after the brightness of the sun in his unprotected eyes, and Stiles is too busy bitching to pay proper attention to where he’s putting his face – but somehow they wind up with Stiles’ mouth brushing over Derek’s – or maybe Derek’s mouth brushes over Stiles’ – and the whole world freezes, just slows to a stop and shimmers there for a long second, waiting.

‘-oh…’ Stiles finishes, the syllable a soft exhalation of warm breath over Derek’s lips.

They stare at each other for what feels like forever but is probably only five or six seconds. It’s long enough for Derek’s doubts to start rising, but Stiles evidently doesn’t share them since he surges forward to cradle Derek’s jaw with long fingers, curling them round into the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck, and pulls him in again. 

And, god help him, Derek lets him, pressing back just as urgently, and when Stiles flickers his tongue against his lips he opens his mouth for him eagerly, relishing the way Stiles lets out a desperate, gorgeous little whine and twists up onto the driver’s seat so he can push himself as close to Derek as possible. 

Derek gets his hands around Stiles’ narrow waist, and they wind up with Stiles on his knees on the leather seat, his upper body fully out of the open window, arms wrapped around Derek’s neck, and it’s the weirdest, sloppiest, most perfect kiss Derek has ever had. 

He moves to press open-mouthed kisses down Stiles’ jaw, onto his neck, to lick at the salty skin of Stiles’ clavicle – which still does taste a little of Gatorade, but mostly it tastes dizzingly of sunlight and Stiles – and Stiles groans, deep in his throat which makes Derek tighten his grip around his waist… And it’s right then that Stiles’ phone rings. 

He pulls back a little, breathless, to find Stiles looking at him with the same wide eyes he imagines he has right now. 

He can’t stop his eyes ticking down to Stiles’ neck, now pleasingly flushed from stubble-burn, which renders him wordless yet again.

Stiles, of course, recovers his faculties before Derek does. ‘Sooo... that happened,’ he says, voice thick with uncertainty.

‘Um…’ Derek replies, eloquently. ‘We... We shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. Boyfriend.’

Stiles sinks back into the jeep a bit, and Derek feels the loss of his withdrawal even though he’s barely gone anywhere and fuck, he might just be in this a little deeper than he realised. 

Stiles looks crushed – presumably because he’s been caught, or perhaps he’d forgotten in the heat of the moment. ‘You…’ He looks away for a second, swallowing hard. ‘You never said you were dating.’ He laughs bitterly. ‘I really thought I was done with shit like this after last year…’

Derek’s head spins. ‘I’m not dating. You are!’

Stiles’ eyebrows climb to somewhere near his hairline. ‘No I’m not!’

‘Yes you are!’ Derek crosses his arms over his chest and marshals his eyebrows into their sternest arrangement. He’s starting to feel pissed, because if there’s one thing he cannot deal with, it’s liars. 

‘Am not!’ Stiles insists, mouth hanging open in protest.

Derek ignores how pink and inviting it is. ‘Are too!’

‘I think that I would know about it if I were, Derek!’ Stiles says with an thin laugh. 

‘Well you have a _person_ ,’ Derek says sulkily, and it’s right around then that he realises Stiles has been using the exact same disparaging tone whenever he mentions Pablo. 

Stiles shakes his head, exhaling slowly through his nose. ‘What?’

‘When I gave you a ride home from the club you mentioned Matt. You said he was your person.’

Stiles swipes his hands over his face. ‘Oh my god. Ew. No. That is… Just… God, no. Matt is my… my mentor. At college. It’s a hundred and twelve per cent platonic, trust me.’

There’s a weird buzzing in Derek’s ears that Derek thinks is probably the sound of his resolve crumbling. ‘Oh.’

‘Yeah… _Oh.’_ Stiles smirks a little as he opens the door of the jeep, so subtly Derek barely even notices. 

Derek toes at the tarmac under his feet, feeling for all the world like a bashful kid again. ‘So you’re…’ 

‘Extremely single,’ Stiles confirms, eyes liquid-dark with something that makes the air turn thick between them. He leans forward, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Derek’s shorts. 

‘Oh.’ 

‘And…’ The warmth of Stiles-in-near-proximity is back. ‘…extremely into you.’ The fingers slip under the fabric of the tank top, dancing over the sensitive skin of his hip bones.

‘Oh.’ Derek’s heart feels like it might beat right out of his chest.

Stiles chuffs impatiently and rolls his eyes. ‘Jesus, would you get the fuck in here Hale, what are you waiting for, a written invitation?’ 

_’Oh.’_ Derek doesn’t need to be asked twice.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this kinda got away from me and turned into 5k of almost-smut. Like, ridiculous, stupid, silly almost-smut, but almost-smut nevertheless. 
> 
> And potato stamping, because that's what this fic is...
> 
> Sorry in advance if you hate smut and/or potato stamping, if you're good with them then I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Your comments seriously make my day, you guys are the best.

Engaging in a passionate tryst with Stiles in the front seat of a dilapidated heap of scrap metal masquerading as an automobile is about as ridiculous as Derek thought it would be - which is to say, very. 

There’s approximately six square feet of space in which to fit over twelve feet of man, and Stiles deals with this by winding himself around Derek like a monkey around a vine, which would probably be really hot if Stiles weren’t mostly knees and elbows (judging by the number of times Derek gets accidentally jabbed or kneed he’d guess that Stiles has at least six of each, what the fuck). 

The metal of the jeep shifts and creaks alarmingly with their combined weight, because it’s not so much a car as it is a fucking death trap. The leather-esque fabric of the seat sticks uncomfortably to the underneath of Derek’s thighs where his running shorts have rucked up, so he’s sort of dreading peeling himself off the seat when this is over in case he ends up getting an unwanted wax job that his sisters will never let him live down. 

The cab of the jeep has held onto every degree of heat the beating sun has thrown at it over the last couple of hours, the dark dash and seat leather releasing it in waves of warmth that ripple mirage-like through the air in front of the windscreen.

Within minutes Stiles and Derek have turned the dry heat humid, fogging up the reluctantly wound-up windows (Derek insists on this after Mrs Emerson, his sweet little old lady neighbour, who is out walking her weird feather-duster of a dog, leans in towards the jeep with a cheery ‘coo-ee!’ and gets a face full of _way_ more than she bargained for) with their combined exhalations and perspiration, and the sunlight diffusing hazily through the condensation makes Derek feel as though he’s not part of the world outside anymore, they’ve shut reality out in favour of this gauzy, dreamlike moment. 

Derek learns, in a discovery that comes as no surprise at all, that even when his mouth should be otherwise occupied Stiles _never. Stops. Talking,_ preferring to use kisses to punctuate a steady stream of consciousness murmured into Derek’s ear or neck or hair, never leaving a moment of silence unfilled.

Derek also finds, in a somewhat more surprising discovery, that despite all these things he’s never been more turned on in his _life_. 

Because yeah, it’s cramped and stiflingly warm and overly public and fucking _ridiculous._

But more importantly: Stiles.

Once Derek has had enough of falling victim to Stiles’ many knees and elbows, he manhandles him firmly so he’s straddling his lap. Stiles immediately seems content to settle there. He’s somehow both solid and pliant, his wide shoulders bracketing Derek in a way that makes him feel surrounded and safe, while his waist tapers down into slender hips that Derek’s hands slide around easily. He digs his thumbs firmly into the V of Stiles’ lower abs, relishing in the moan he pulls from his chest. 

‘Fuck, Derek…’ Stiles groans, dropping his forehead to rest in the crook of Derek’s neck. ‘You feel so good, fuck…’

Derek finds he doesn’t mind the deep, sweet hum of Stiles’ voice. In fact he likes it, likes the way it naturally falls into a low, velvety register that wraps around him, soft and sultry, helping his mind relax even as the vibrations from Stiles’ throat set his own skin tingling. 

He finds the softly murmured words more reassuring than annoying, especially since they seem to spill from Stiles’ mouth natural and unfiltered. Derek’s previous partners often produced unsettlingly fake porn-star personas as soon as things got sexy, but Stiles… Stiles is still so strange, and so cute, and so _Stiles_. 

And yeah, Derek’s into that. 

When Derek inadvertently recreates an iconic Titanic handprint in the condensation, Stiles tips back his head and laughs, long and unselfconscious. Derek can’t really remember laughing much during kissing before but it’s _good._

He nudges his nose up under Stiles’ throat, running his tongue along the tendons, stomach cinching with desire at the taste of his skin, salty and savoury and tinged with just a hint of sugar from the Gatorade, the sound of Stiles’ laughter rich in his ears.

Stiles follows the sound with his teeth, running them gently down the shell of Derek’s ear, and chuckles softly, sending a shower of electricity sparkling down the back of Derek’s neck.

‘So, uh, what are we doing here, big guy?’ Stiles asks breathlessly, through bitten-pink lips. 

Derek feels tension freeze his spine straight. Shit. He hadn’t expected this conversation quite so soon, and it dispels some of the illusory magic of the moment, reminding him with an unpleasant sinking sensation that yeah, he’s here wrapped up in a gorgeous boy, but also that said gorgeous boy is his employee and will also be leaving in a matter of weeks. This is such a bad idea, on so many levels. 

There’s no turning back now, not after the kissing – because the _kissing_ , holy shit – but he needs to try and keep this whole thing in perspective. See it for what it is, and not get invested in something so temporary. ‘Um.’ He swallows. ‘Look, I’m… I like you, too. But, uh, casual is all I can... I don’t really date. And this can’t change anything at work.’

Stiles sits back a little and scrunches his nose up in an amused way, which is cuter than it has any right to be. ‘Okay...’ He lifts his shoulders in an insouciant shrug, which makes Derek bristle a little (even though he knows he has no right to). It’s good that Stiles is cool with them not being a serious thing, but does he really have to be _so_ cool about it? Derek’s not sure why the sharp-edged thought rattles around in his head before lodging itself right in the back of his brain. It’s probably just an ugly little pride thing. He gives himself a mental shake to try and dislodge it, and shifts his attention back onto Stiles, whose wide mouth is turned up at the corners. 

Stiles licks his lips. ‘Not that that’s not good to know, but, uh, I actually meant, like… What are we doing _here_ , as in, parked out here in front of your building in broad daylight. Don’t get me wrong, I am absolutely down for you to touch me anywhere you want…’ he grins, impishly, eyes crinkling at the corners, ‘and I mean that on every possible level. But I'm a reprobate. You’re supposed to be a respectable pillar of the community, Mr Hale. Maybe we should try and find some shrubs or something, get a little privacy going on.’

Derek smirks, grateful that Stiles, as ever, avoids asking to go to Derek’s place, even though it’s by far the most obvious solution. ‘Well. I don’t know about shrubs, but I guess we should take it elsewhere or I’ll end up getting reported to the neighbourhood watch for terrorising old ladies.’ 

‘Whatever, dude,’ Stiles huffs out a laugh. ‘You know this was the best day of Mrs Neighbour-lady’s life. 

The familiar warm sensation of annoyed-affection spreads through Derek’s chest, un-freezing his spine and allowing his shoulders to relax. He quirks a brow. ‘Always so humble, Stilinski.’ 

Stiles snorts. ‘Not because of me, idiot. Pretty sure it wasn’t my biceps she was gawking at. Not all of us are underwear models, dude.’ 

‘I’m not an underwear model,’ Derek protests, but Stiles just shakes his head. 

‘No, you just hook up with them. Come on, I know you have at some point seen yourself in a mirror in the last thirty years, we both know all you’d need to do is flex in Calvin Klein’s direction and they’d come a-running… Me, on the other hand…’ Stiles says the words lightly but the way he chews on his lip afterwards, the way he fiddles with the worn hem of his shirt, the way colour starts to stain his cheeks and throat unevenly – all seems to suggest there’s something weightier behind them.

‘What about you?’ Derek frowns, trying to piece it together.

Stiles rolls his eyes, but blurts out, too loud in the small space, ‘I’m… not, obviously!’ 

Derek blinks at him for a second. ‘Not what?’

There’s a pause. ‘I’m not,’ Stiles says again, eventually, ‘y’know. An underwear model.’ He worries at his lip again, eyes sliding off to the side like he can’t meet Derek’s gaze, and, huh.

It is, Derek suspects, one of those situations that Laura regularly yells at him about – one that requires tact and diplomacy and a shit ton of stuff Derek really sucks at. 

So he manfully resists his initial urge to laugh – not because Stiles being a model is a laughable thought, but because it’s ridiculous that Stiles seems so naively unaware of the effect he’s having on Derek - and cautiously says, ‘Um. Were… were you under the impression I thought you were?’ 

Stiles’ eyes narrow dangerously and he shifts just a tiny bit further away.

Shit. A swing and a miss. 

‘I mean -‘ Derek scrambles for something better. ‘Most people aren’t? So, I, uh, I wasn’t expecting, uh…’ 

‘Anything much?’ Stiles finishes, the blush in his cheeks now hot from anger rather than nerves. 

Not better. _Abortabortabort._

‘Can you not put words in my mouth?’ Derek sighs, frustrated at not being able to articulate himself better. He puts his hands up to hold Stiles by the shoulders, wanting him to understand. Wanting him to stay. ‘You don’t have anything to worry about, okay? You’re… Actually sorta perfect…’ He realises belatedly that he mumbled the last part, more an admission to himself than anything.

Thankfully Stiles doesn’t manage to catch it. ‘Huh?’ 

‘I said… I said your ass is sorta perfect.’

Stiles’ mouth twitches at the corners, just a little, and Derek feels the rush of relief in his chest. ‘It is a pretty good ass,’ Stiles says, faux-sulkily. 

‘There ya go. I’m sure the rest of you isn’t totally hideous either…’ Derek makes a point of letting his gaze sweep Stiles’ body slowly. 

‘Oh fuck off,’ Stiles says with a laugh, prodding a long finger into Derek’s chest. ‘I’m not like a carnival mirror reflection either, jeez. But I’m, y’know...’ He pauses, then says with a rueful chuckle, ‘I’m not a Picasso, but I’m not a Pablo either. I’m not _billboard worthy.’_ He gestures down the length of his body abstractly.

Wrinkles furrow Derek’s brow. ‘You do know those pictures on billboards aren’t actual size, right?’

Stiles gives him a hard stare. 

‘Look, I don’t _just_ hook up with underwear models,’ Derek says in what he hopes is a reassuring way. 

Stiles squints down at him, folding his arms across his chest a little self-consciously, which definitely won’t do at all. ‘You don’t?’

‘Nope,’ Derek shakes his head, tugging gently at Stiles’ arms until they unfold. He leans up to press a kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth, then settles back down and says, ‘Robert _never_ wore underwear in any of his nude campaigns for that French cologne…’ 

‘You fucker!’ Stiles shoves at his chest playfully, toppling down when Derek grabs his wrists, until they’re chest to chest again. 

Derek holds his gaze, taking in the wide curve of his mouth and his upturned nose, and his crazy-stupid, sticky-up hair. 

He’s too awkward – much too awkward – to know how to tell Stiles that he’s sexy _because_ of his imperfections. He might not have the sort of cookie cutter good looks that Derek has gone for over the last few years, but it’s the ways in which he breaks the mould that catch Derek’s attention, and the strangeness and unpredictability of him that holds it. He’s not GQ hot, he’s dorky-dirty-deliciously hot, and it’s making Derek enough of a slave to his libido that not only is he making out in broad daylight on the street, but he’s also doing it in the world’s crappiest excuse for a car. 

He slides his hands down so he can feel the rise and fall of Stiles’ ribcage, flexing his fingers into the fabric of the t-shirt. He just about holds himself back from peeling it off Stiles entirely, struggling to think of reasons why getting caught wouldn’t be worth it. 

He finds he’s developed sudden sympathy for Boyd and Erica’s endless PDAs. 

‘I want you,’ Derek says, because it’s the only thought his brain can seem to hold on to, and this time he knows it’s the right thing to say by the sharp intake of Stiles’ breath.  
‘You should probably do something about it then, big guy,’ Stiles says, eyes locked on Derek’s mouth. 

Derek shakes his head reluctantly, his jaw working silently for a few long seconds while he drags his brain back up from where it’s happily settled in his crotch. ‘Not here. And we have to get ready for work in half an hour.’ 

Stiles huffs. ‘Fine. But until then we can make out some more and you can grope my sorta perfect ass, right?’

Derek laughs. ‘Right.’ 

‘Awesome.’ Stiles bounces in place a little, which is nearly enough to get Derek all worked up again, so he grabs him by his slender hips and leans up to nuzzle along his collar-bone. 

‘Although…’ Stiles says, curling his fingers into the meat of Derek’s shoulders, voice rough and low. ‘I don’t know if I should be offended that my ass is only _sorta_ perfect. I’m gonna need constructive criticism on that front. Or, ya know, back. _Sorta_ perfect just isn’t gonna - oh, damn… Is it ‘cos it’s got a crack in it?’ 

He squawks as Derek lunges for him, half-tickling and half trying to dump him out of the car for his awful no-good very-bad jokes. 

They end up wrestling a little and kissing a lot before Stiles manages somehow to open the door behind Derek and dump _him_ out onto the sidewalk, before driving off with a shit-eating grin on his face, leaving Derek sprawled over the hot asphalt wondering how his life has come to this. 

Derek peels himself from the sidewalk and heads straight for the shower. He closes his eyes under the steady stream of tepid water, blissfully cool on his overheated skin, trying to let it wash away some of the mess of emotions that currently threaten to overwhelm him. 

Intellectually he knows this is a terrible idea. He’s spent his whole adult life doing everything possible to avoid getting in too deep with anyone. He’s always known exactly what he was getting into, exactly how to avoid getting hurt. He’s always in control. Giving in to base impulses against his own better judgement is new territory for him, and he’s not sure he likes it. 

He should probably break it off. 

He should definitely break it off. 

He rests his forehead against cool, slick tiles, and immediately his mind jumps to Stiles draped over his lap. His hips buck sharply along with the leap of his mind, residual, unresolved lust crystallising sharply into a raw, deep ache in the pit of his stomach. 

He thinks of the way Stiles’ eyes light up with mischief, how helplessly he’s drawn to the spark. 

He thinks about his sorta perfect ass. 

He closes his eyes in defeat. 

He’s not gonna break it off. 

*

Later, at work, Derek works hard to be his usual grouchy self. 

He’s a little worried that Erica will see right through his carefully maintained impassivity, especially since he’s actually struggling to focus on anything instead of the hazy memories of that afternoon’s make-out session in the jeep – the firm press of Stiles’ chest against his own, the way his long fingers had wound into Derek’s hair, the richness of his voice. 

Happily, his life is made a little easier by the return of Greenberg, who is even whinier than usual with his arm in a cast and who has already reported Erica to the warehouse owners for a parking violation, thus ensuring his own misery for at least the next six to eight months. 

Derek finds he has no problem pulling himself from his own extremely unprofessional head-space when he walks into the break room to find Erica sitting at the little table, whittling away at something with a scarily large knife, while Stiles and Scott inspect several small tins lined up on the counter. Derek frowns as he looks closer and determines that, yes, Erica absolutely is carving something out of a potato. 

‘What are you doing?’ He bites back a smile when he sees Stiles’ shoulders straighten just a little at the sound of his voice. 

‘Arts and crafts,’ Erica replies with a happy grin.

‘Okay,’ Derek says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingertips. ‘Why do those arts and crafts involve what appears to be a samurai sword, and why are you letting Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber near tins of paint? You know that ‘Fucking Menace’ status precludes an employee from having unsupervised access to paint and glitter.’ 

Stiles swivels on one heel to face him. ‘Hey!’ He’s pouty and adorable. ‘I can be trusted with arts and crafts!’ 

Derek raises a sceptical brow and nods to Stiles’ cuff, which is spattered with lilac droplets of paint. ‘Uh huh.’ 

‘This was deliberate,’ Stiles lies, deadpan. ‘It’s decorative.’ 

‘And why are you decorating yourselves, Jackson Pollack style?’ 

‘They’re not, they’re just idiots,’ Erica clarifies from the table, the pink tip of her tongue peeking out through her glossed lips, brow furrowed in concentration as she bends over the potato. ‘They were just supposed to check which of the tins still have usable paint, not cover themselves in it like fucking toddlers.’ 

Derek sighs. ‘And why do you need paint?’ 

‘For my potato,’ Erica says, blithely. 

‘She’s making a potatoey stampy painty thingy,’ Scott clarifies. 

‘That’s a technical term,’ Stiles chimes in with a smile. 

‘Right.’ Scott beams at him. 

‘A…’ Derek rolls his eyes heavenward before he can make himself say the words. ‘A potatoey stampy painty thing?’

‘Exactly,’ Erica says, sitting back from her work and surveying it in satisfaction. ‘I’m doing a frowny face. It’s inspired by you, Der. I’ve just finished the scowly eyebrows. What do you think?’ 

Derek glares at her. 

She sits back in her chair, delighted. ‘It’s a perfect likeness!’ 

Derek grinds his teeth together. ‘What is the purpose of the potatoey stampy painty thingy?’ 

‘I’m going to frowny stamp everyone that annoys me today,’ Erica says, folding the knife away back into its handle and secreting it somewhere about her person. ‘Instead of killing them. Gonna stamp ‘em. Stamp stamp _stamp!_ ’ 

‘You’re going to stamp… people?’ Derek asks, though he’s not sure why he’s surprised by this. 

‘Of course. Need to mark them up as the potato-brained morons they are, Boss!’ 

Derek feels like he should put a stop to this, probably.

He probably shouldn’t let Erica go off on some mad potato stamping vengeance-spree.

He definitely shouldn’t let her inflict scowly potatoey trauma on staff and drivers alike.

But all he can wonder, as he makes his way to the coffee pot, ignoring the crackle over his radio that precedes one of Greenberg’s complaints, is whether she has another potato.

He sighs and mentally gets himself together. ‘No stamping people,’ he says as sternly as he can manage. ‘I don’t need those kinds of lawsuits in my life.’

Erica scowls mutinously. ‘I’m just gonna stamp their foreheads. Nowhere _inappropriate…_ ’

Derek shakes his head. ‘No.’

The legs of the chair scrape sharply against the floor as she stands and sweeps out of the room, muttering darkly under her breath. Derek’s pretty sure he hears ‘I’ll fucking stamp _you…’_ but he decides to let it go on the basis that he doesn’t have a death wish. 

‘So…’ Stiles says, gazing after her with wide eyes. ‘That went well.’ 

‘She’ll be fine. I’ll bust out the good cookies later.’ Derek takes a long sip of coffee. ‘I have a working theory that she’s actually just three homicidal toddlers stacked on top of one another. But if either of you tell her that I’ll rip your throats out with my teeth.’ 

‘You can count on us, Boss!’ Scott beams. If he were a puppy Derek’s pretty sure he’d be wagging his tail right now. 

‘Sure,’ Stiles says, much less convincingly. ‘That’s absolutely not the kind of information that I would use to barter my freedom from the prank revenge hell I’ve been living in for a fortnight. Not at _all.’_ He gives a vulpine smile. 

Derek narrows his eyes and bares his teeth, just a little, delighted when it makes a blush creep up Stiles’ neck. He’s just contemplating how far down the blush might go beneath Stiles’ uniform shirt when he remembers Scott’s still standing right there, now looking from Stiles to Derek with a look of dawning comprehension. 

‘Heeey…’ he says, brows furrowed, and Derek thinks they should probably call time on this moment before Scott manages to figure anything out. 

He taps one foot slowly on the floor, and gives them both his iciest glare. ‘And you’re both still here instead of off doing the jobs I pay you for _because…?’_

Scott visibly gulps. ‘Uh. We should probably fuck off now, huh Boss?’ 

Derek nods and takes another sip of coffee. ‘Off you should indeed fuck.’

‘Already gone!’ comes Stiles’ reply from halfway down the hall. 

Derek leans back against the countertop and zones out for a full couple of minutes before he catches himself and has to conscious rearrange his features to remove the dopily soft smile from his face. He thunks his forehead against the nearest cupboard door a few times, hoping to knock some sense into himself.

Then he notices all the paint tins lined up exactly where Scott and Stiles left them. He sighs. Two weeks ago there’s no way he’d have overlooked making them clean up their mess. Now it had taken him five minutes to even _notice_ it.

He is so fucked. 

*

Evidently Stiles shares the sentiment, but in a much more literal sense, as Derek discovers right around the time Stiles pushes him up against the wall of the store-room and kisses him like he’s dying of thirst and Derek is made of water. 

‘Did you- _jesus,_ Stiles, did you follow me in here?’ Derek suspects that Stiles actually left the paint tins out on purpose, knowing that the store room would be quiet and private.

Stiles pulls back a little, quirks an eyebrow, his eyes dark and smoky under the dim lights. ‘No, Derek, I routinely lurk near darkened rooms in the hope of finding a willing victim to smooch. Surprise, I’m a sex vampire!’

He punctuates this with jazz hands. Derek wishes it was enough to make him think twice about the whole situation. But it isn’t. Not even when Stiles crooks his fingers into claws, tucks his bottom lip under his top teeth and says in the stupidest accent Derek’s ever heard, _‘I vant to suck your face!’_

‘I hate you,’ he says conversationally, tone mild in contrast to the heat that flares through him as he fists his hands in Stiles’ shirt with renewed purpose, yanking him back in so their mouths re-connect. If nothing else it seems like an excellent way to stop Stiles from talking. Derek slips his tongue through Stiles’ parted, perfectly pink lips and rolls it, licking into his mouth possessively, without hesitation. Stiles makes the same desperately sexy little whining noise that he made earlier that afternoon, letting his Derek take his weight as he gives himself over to the kiss. 

Derek turns them, and slides his hands down over the smooth planes of Stiles’ lower back, over the swell of his really-sorta-perfect ass, and hitches them under the top of his thighs to lift him slightly so he’s perched on the edge of the counter top next to the janitor’s sink. Stiles responds by immediately widening his thighs and hooking his legs around Derek’s legs, pulling him into the V of his legs until there’s nothing between them but a few layers of thin fabric – and even that feels like far too much. 

Derek grinds into Stiles shamelessly, letting out an animal, feral noise at how hard he can feel Stiles is. He braces Stiles’ lower back with one hand and slides his other hand into his soft, messy hair so he can tilt Stiles’ head until he finds the soft lobe of his ear with his mouth and sucks, rocking his hips sure and steady. The soft, sweet edge of Gatorade is gone, and in its place is a clean, masculine, soapy scent, and warm, savoury flesh under his tongue. A stream of profanities fall from Stiles’ mouth, making Derek grin as he scrapes his teeth over the tender skin under his ear and down to the hinge of his jaw. 

He moves with purpose, holding Stiles through his gasps and moans, cataloguing every shudder, every jerk of Stiles' hips. He deliberately keeps their hips so closely aligned that Stiles’ wandering hands can’t find their way between them. This is how he wants it; he wants to make Stiles fall apart with his hands and mouth and hips, to make him come like a teenager, and he wants to leave him messy and breathless, exactly how Stiles thought he’d be leaving Derek. He might not be as strong willed as he’d thought – not strong enough to turn down a chance to see Stiles’ face when he comes, at least – but he can take control somehow, even if it means an extra long, extra-cold shower before bed in the morning.

He almost comes anyway, despite all his best intentions, when Stiles finally moans deep and long and his hips stutter, fingers clutching at Derek’s back as his mouth finds Derek’s in a sloppy kiss so they’re sharing the same air as Stiles comes.

He splays his palm over the small of Stiles’ back, holding him steady as he grinds him through the last of his aftershocks. He’s painfully hard himself, and dangerously close to coming, but he needs to prove to himself he’s in control.

His control ends up being sorely tested when Stiles sighs out the last blissful, diaphanous wisps of his orgasm and then nudges his cheek with his nose, seeking out his mouth in a series of sweet-hot kisses that make Derek feel like his spine is melting.

He’s always liked kissing well enough, but usually as a means to an end. It’s always been the first stage of foreplay, nice but nothing more. 

But this… this with Stiles wound around him, responsive and raw, arching into the motion of Derek’s mouth on his… this somehow feels like more. It feels like connection.

Stiles sits back a little, eventually, to breathe, eyelids hooded heavily over lust-glazed eyes. He stays close enough that their chests are still pressed together, close enough that Derek can feel every laboured breath, every thump of his heart. 

Stiles slides his hands up to cup Derek’s jaw, like he did the first time they kissed, cradling it tenderly. His expression is unusually serious, no trademark smirk playing at the corners of his sensual mouth, and Derek wonders if he feels the intimacy as unbearably as he does. 

Stiles’ throat works the way it does when he’s about to say something – something important, judging by the gravity of his expression - and as he finally catches his breath, Derek holds own.

‘This,’ Stiles murmurs, threading his fingers through the scruff on Derek’s cheek, ‘is way softer than it looks.’ He moving his hand to rub his palm over the stubble. ‘Mm. S’like a baby yeti’s ass.’ 

Derek pulls back, a little horrified – though he’s not sure whether it’s directed more at Stiles, or at himself for the fact his boner hasn’t died away. ‘What.’ 

‘What?’ Stiles dips back in to plant a wet kiss on Derek’s mouth. ‘It’s a compliment!’

‘Right,’ Derek says. ‘Because a guy can’t hear that his face is like a mythical creature’s ass cheeks often enough…’

‘Exactly.’ Stiles beams, and he’s so weird, and so _cute_ that Derek can’t help but kiss his smile. Stiles makes a contented little noise in the back of his throat that goes straight to the base of Derek’s spine, and he allows his hands to slide down far enough to grab handfuls of Stiles’ warm, firm butt. ‘Mm,’ Stiles hums in approval. ‘Can you believe my friends tell me I’m bad at seducing?’

‘You don’t say,’ Derek replies dryly. 

‘I know, right? Fools.’ Stiles grins. ‘This has all gone perfectly according to plan. Saw you, wanted you, two months of you hating my guts later you’ve finally succumbed to my charms.’

‘Well _hate_ is kind of a strong – wait, what? Two months?’ Derek blinks up at him. Could his weird and inappropriate attraction really have been reciprocated all this time?

‘Of course.’ Stiles quirks a brow at him. ‘Since day one, Boss-Man.’

‘Oh.’ Derek can’t help the cold pang of disappointment that quashes some of the fire in his belly. He’s not sure where it comes from - it's not like he'd been hoping this thing with Stiles might run a little deeper than just a surface attraction, obviously. In fact it works better for him if it’s mostly lust-based, but still.... _Still..._

‘I mean you look insanely hot in your uniform, of course. But you know what I really liked?’

‘What?’ Derek sighs reluctantly, expecting the shpiel he usually gets about his ass or his arms or whatever. 

‘Your disproportionately small ears,’ Stiles says with a decisive nod. ‘They make me feel all protective.’ 

‘I – what?’ Derek’s not sure if the fact that ninety per cent of his total blood volume is currently still in his crotch is to blame for his confusion.

‘And then your smile,’ Stiles adds, and now Derek knows he’s being bull-shitted. 

‘I never smile.’

Stiles smirks. ‘That’s what I noticed.’

Derek closes his eyes against the fond irritation that floods him. ‘You’re an idiot.’

‘Nuh uh. First I noticed the ears, then I thought, oh the poor guy, he’s so cut up about his weirdly tiny ears that he can’t bring himself to smile! So I made it my mission to make you smile as much as possible, ears be damned.’ Stiles grins earnestly. ‘Feel free to thank me any time.’ 

Derek arches a questioning brow. ‘Thank you?’

‘You’re welcome!’ Stiles’ teeth gleam white under the fluorescent glow of the strip lighting. ‘Now... would a blow job get me another smile, big guy?’ 

Derek presses their foreheads together, breathing him in, breathing through the temptation. ‘I… gotta get back to work. Besides, I’ve fired people for less…’

‘Aww, come on, Der…’ Stiles wheedles, kissing at whatever skin he can reach on Derek’s jaw. ‘Stay and be a great big sexy hypocrite with me…’ 

‘Sorry, I can’t…’ Derek steps back, lowering Stiles gently to the floor. Stiles makes an adorably disgusted face as his pants readjust. ‘You should probably get cleaned up before you come back to work. There’s usually spare pants in lost property if you need some.’ Derek doesn’t usually like to think about what work-based circumstances might lead to a pair of pants getting separated from their owner on any long term basis.

‘So you’re just gonna make me come in my pants and then leave me here?’ Stiles splutters, affronted. 

Derek grins. ‘Yep, pretty much.’ 

Stiles gasps, raising a hand to point a long, accusatory finger at Derek. ‘You planned this!’ 

‘Still got me to smile, though.’ 

Stiles scowls. ‘Oh my god, you suck so much!’ 

Derek grabs for his hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing the fingertips. ‘You started it,’ he murmurs, slipping the tips of two fingers into his mouth so he can run his tongue along the sensitive pads. 

‘Dereeek,’ Stiles whines, eyes metallic in the light. ‘I wanna finish it… Tomorrow?’ 

Derek shrugs (because Stiles isn’t the only one who can be casual about their thing being casual, thank you very much), and hums around his fingers. He drops his hand slowly and says, ‘We’ll see…’, and he even manages to say it without his voice jumping along in time to his thumping heart because he’s just that fucking smooth. 

He turns away, feeling smugly satisfied at being so chill until he realises he has to walk like John Wayne to make it to the door because he’s still so fucking hard. 

Stiles’ laughter rings in his ears for the rest of the night, and he feels like maybe he didn’t win this round quite as resoundingly as he’d have liked. 

He finds he doesn’t mind too much. After all, there’ll be round two, tomorrow.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been stressing over this (the italics, the pacing, how much of the plot seems to revolve around baked goods) and then I remembered - oh right, this is the one fic that I decided not to stress about, so I got my head out of my ass and wrote it. 
> 
> TL;DR: Here it is, baked goods and all. Thank you so, so much for reading!

Even with proper blood-flow re-established to his brain (which takes an embarrassingly long time) Derek finds concentrating on work difficult. It really doesn’t help that every time he catches a glimpse of Stiles from across the warehouse his goddamn mouth is always open - _why is his goddamn perfect mouth always open_ for fuck’s sake? It’s un-fucking-fair, is what it is. 

Derek retreats to the office where he spends the entire shift reining his mind in whenever it starts to drift away to extremely unsuitable-for-work territory. He kicks himself – literally, he’s covered in bruises within the hour - every time he finds he’s lost several minutes to idle daydreams about slender, pale fingers or a ready, mischievous smile, or that laugh. That fucking _laugh_ that spills from Stiles so easily, that bounces around the warehouse, and haunts his dreams, and vibrates from Stiles’ chest right into Derek’s own. The one that turns him on as much as it annoys him, sinking into his skin like buzzing, sparking electric shocks, leaving in its wake goosebumps and a restless sense of agitation in him limbs. It’s unbearable how much he finds he wants to seek Stiles out just to hear it again. 

He watches the clock tick down to the end of the shift with uncharacteristic eagerness. He usually loves to immerse himself in his work – even the tedious administrative side of it – applying himself with a quiet but resolute determination, often at the expense of other aspects of his life. He can’t remember ever letting himself get distracted like this before. He sits back in chair and rubs his hands over his face, trying to let the sting of stubble on his palms snap him back to reality.

Whatever is happening with Derek’s rampant Stiles-based hormones, work has to come first (unlike Derek, who is painfully, pleasurably aware that he’s yet to come at all, in Stiles’ presence).

He loves his work, he always has, but it’s more than that. He has a point to prove – to himself, and to everyone else. 

He needs to prove it to Uncle Peter, who needled him all through his childhood because Derek is rough and raw, not sleek and sharp like Peter is. 

He needs to prove it to Kate, who saw him as nothing more than a resource to be used up, first to fuel her own narcissism and then to fuel the fires of her insanity. 

He needs to prove it to his classmates in college who pigeonholed him as a dumb jock just because of his basketball scholarship, attributing any academic success to him skating by on his looks and athletic talent rather than the hours of study and hard work he actually put into his degree. 

He needs to prove to himself that he can do this, that he can be successful at this thing that he loves. He knows intellectually, after time and self-reflection, that Peter and Kate were gas-lighting him, but it’s not as simple as just switching those insecurities off. Those worries that people won’t value him for anything more than his looks or his family name – they’re worries that took seed in his formative years and that have grown with him, twining themselves around his character and his experiences like vines, rooting themselves deeply, suffocating most of the tender shoots that try to reach out to other people with doubt and mistrust. So Derek holds himself apart, except for the resilient few that tough out the awkwardness that translates into stand-offishness, like Boyd and Erica.

He prides himself on self-control, which he’s perfected into an art form. He meets his physical needs by hooking up with blandly hot, interchangeable types, who he never feels compelled to really get to know, and who never feel compelled to really try to get to know him. It’s better that way. 

At least it always has been, until now. 

He thinks about the breath-hot intimacy of the store room, about the arch of Stiles’ back and the line of his throat, about the lush, perfect weight of his ass in Derek’s palm.

Fuck. 

He drums his fingertips on the desk impatiently and lowers his forehead until it meets cool wood, using his forearm to muffle the noise of gritty frustration that he has to let loose from his throat. 

_Fuck._

He can’t be reduced to being a helpless slave to his baser instincts. He _can’t._ He’s _better than this._

He glances at his watch and finds that the shift is due to end in a couple of minutes. He usually stays a little later than the rest of the night guys, greeting whoever is first to arrive for the day shift, and cleaning up after the night shift a little. 

They almost always leave a bunch of coffee-stained cups on the kitchen counter – because they truly are like a pack of animals, Derek grumbles to himself – which he can’t bear to leave for someone else. They’re _his_ pack of wild animals, after all. So he stands and stretches, feeling the joints in his shoulders pop satisfyingly, and then makes his way to the kitchen where he runs a sink of sudsy water. He doesn’t mind doing the dishes, actually. He kind of likes the routine of it, the chance to wind down with repetitive activity. As his hands sink into the warmth of the water, he lets himself sink into mindlessness. 

He’s so content swishing the cups around that he nearly jumps out of his skin when a familiar voice murmurs, right by his ear, ‘These are sexy…’, before a hand snaps a little at the yellow rubber gloves Derek is currently wearing (that he wouldn’t be seen dead in under normal circumstances, it’s just that no one is usually around at this hour and doing dishes is hellish on the cuticles, and proper nail bed maintenance is important okay.) 

Stiles presses up against Derek’s back just a little more, brushing a soft, silken kiss to the nape of his neck that makes Derek’s stomach flip like he’s some idiotic teenager.

Derek smirks, not looking up from the sink lest he give away how affected he is by the way Stiles’ warmth and cologne wrap around him. ‘Only if you have a rubber fetish.’ 

Stiles huffs a laugh into his shoulder and then turns to lean against the counter, long legs out in front of him. He folds his arms loosely across his chest, eyeing Derek’s forearms where they disappear into the sunshine-yellow gloves. ‘Maybe I do…’

Derek shrugs nonchalantly, swirling a cloth around Boyd’s ‘Fresh Out Of Fucks’ mug. ‘I might have known you’d be some sort of pervert,’ he says mildly.

Stiles laughs again, setting off a shower of tiny fireworks down Derek’s spine and stilling his hands in the soapy water for just a second because _there_ is it. ‘Nah, I’m just a sucker for seeing big bad boss man going all papa bear. Derek Hale: domestic goddess.’

'Shut up.' Derek scrubs with greater ferocity, hoping the motion will distract Stiles from the blush that heats his cheeks and ears. 

It doesn’t. Stiles makes this little noise – an incredulous, annoyed sort of giggle - and says, ‘Oh my god, stop being so fucking cute.’

Derek looks at him then in surprise, brow crinkled. ‘Cute?’ 

‘No one ever call you that before?’ Stiles arches an amused brow. His regulation black shirt is stretched over surprisingly defined biceps, highlighting the lines of his lovely forearms, and his hair is tousled and touchable. The whole effect is spoiled a little by the creased tan pants that Stiles has been forced to scrounge from Lost and Found, and that are clearly several sizes too large because he’s had to hike them halfway up his stomach and belt them so the waistband is scrunched up and ridiculous. The voluminous pant legs swallow him up, making him look like he’s wearing a particularly hideous ballgown, or maybe that he’s dressed as a security-guard-in-a-paper-bag for some obscure reason of his own. 

Derek blinks several times, processing the image, before turning back to the dishes. He shakes his head because no, no-one’s ever called him cute (his resting murder face, as Cora and Laura like to call it, seems to exclude him firmly from the ‘cute’ category). ‘Nope.’

Stiles waves a hand around. ‘I mean mostly you’re terrifying and whatnot. But sometimes when you’re like, accidentally sweet or you get embarrassed, yeah. You’re fucking cute.’

‘Oh.’ Derek’s ears burn hotter. 

‘Man,’ Stiles sighs, face wistful, ‘all I _ever_ get called is cute.’ He grabs a dishtowel and starts to fidget it from one hand to the next. 

‘Really?’ Derek finds this hard to believe. ‘Never weird? Or obnoxious? Or _loud…?’_

Stiles snaps the dishtowel at him. ‘Shut up. No, I mean, by guys. I just get like, ‘oh Stiles, he’s cute’. What I wouldn’t give for ‘sexy’ or ‘hot’ or ‘irresistibly charismatic’… But all I get is fucking… _cute.’_ He seems appalled by this, which Derek thinks is a shame because, right now, in his massive paper-bag pants, he is _fucking_ cute.

He’s not about to let Stiles know that though, so he says as casually as he can, ‘Well if it makes you feel better I don’t think you’re cute at all, so.’ 

Stiles snaps the towel at his ass again but this time Derek catches it and yanks it, hauling Stiles in closer. ‘Not at all?’ Stiles murmurs, lacing his hands behind Derek’s neck. 

‘Not at all.’ 

Stiles grins impishly. ‘I know when you’re lying, big guy.’ He presses the palm of his hand lightly over Derek’s throat, in which his heart has settled and is now attempting to be every different component of a percussion band all at once. ‘Can tell by your heartbeat.’ 

Derek’s eyebrows rise up, up. ‘That’s a neat little trick. Where’d you pick that up, Psych 101?’

Stiles’ eyelids flutter shut for a second and he chews on his lower lip for a second, white teeth sinking into the plushness in a way that’s highly distracting. ‘Something like that.’ A tiny crease appears on his forehead, and a corresponding dent appears in Derek’s confidence. He’s about to ask if Stiles is okay when Stiles lifts his eyes to meet his, a syrup-slow smile sliding over his face, and says, ‘We running tomorrow?’

Derek flexes his fingers into Stiles’ waist, and it’s then that he realises he forgot to take the gloves off, and he’s left wet, soapy handprints on Stiles’ shirt. And because he’s a possessive asshole, he finds that he likes it, wants to mark him in other ways, wants to suck his name into Stiles’ pale skin and leave it there for everyone else to see. 

Jesus. 

He clears his throat and manages a ‘Yep,’ but it’s a gravelly giveaway and Stiles looks delighted because he’s kind of an asshole too. He looks away, embarrassed, then remembers the text he got from his sister earlier that afternoon. ‘Ah fuck, can’t run tomorrow. I just remembered it’s my sister’s birthday. Got a family picnic.’

‘Aw. Never mind, we can take a rain check.’ Stiles steps back and grabs for one of the clean mugs on the drying rack. ‘Now lemme help you, kay?’

‘You don’t have to.’ 

‘I know. But I have something very important I need to ask you.’

‘Important?’

‘Yes. Actually your answer is gonna form the basis of the entirety of my respect for you and also whether I’m gonna touch your dick in the foreseeable future. No pressure, though.’ 

Derek glances up at the pink the dusts Stiles’ cheekbones and the back of his neck, and at the dilation of his pupils, and smirks to himself. ‘Yeah, I’m not too worried about that.’

Stiles narrows his eyes. ‘Cocky, huh? We’ll see. Alright, here’s the question big guy, you ready for this?’ He flails his hands around dramatically, ending with an exaggerated drum roll on the counter top. ‘Mets or Yankees?’ 

They manage to draw the washing of a few mugs into a full half an hour, teasing each other lightly about baseball and getting caught in the middle of long glances, and it’s actually surprisingly… comfortable. Stiles knows everything there is to know about baseball – and basketball and lacrosse and pretty much everything – and is as entertaining as he is knowledgeable and Derek finds he’s actually enjoying himself a whole bunch. 

Lydia arrives all too soon, and Stiles slips away to go home, shooting Derek a wicked little grin and a wink on his way out. Derek usually prefers solitude to company, finding relief in the sanctity of a quiet room. But today he finds he actually misses Stiles, despite his having dropped two cups and a plate and the constant teasing over the yellow rubber gloves. 

He stares helplessly at the water whirling around the drain as he empties the sink. He feels swept up and away, too, turned around and upside down and mostly just thoroughly confused. 

He presses his fingers to the place on his neck where Stiles’ phantom touch still tingles, cursing irritably at himself when he realises he’s still wearing the godforsaken sopping rubber gloves. 

He stoically ignores Lydia’s knowing glances because she knows nothing, obviously, and also he is _better than this._

Except he’s starting to suspect that maybe he’s not.

*

Derek wakes up with a strange sense of electricity suffusing his limbs, a combination of anticipation and apprehension that lingers through his shower and breakfast.

He fumbles the button on his jeans and burns his eggs and is generally ruffled, on edge, and really pissed off about it. He wants to run it off but he can’t because he’s got to go to Cora’s picnic, and it's Hale sibling tradition that they get together, just the three of them, each birthday and Christmas. There's no way they'll let him get away with not going.

So in the end he snatches up the grocery bag of soft drinks and beer that he promised to bring and leaves his apartment in very bad spirits (it’s nothing at all to do with the fact that he’s checked his phone approximately once every six minutes and hasn’t received anything from Stiles, that’s _totally_ irrelevant). 

(He hasn’t _sent_ anything either, but that’s because he doesn’t care. So.)

In the car he puts on his mirrored aviators with purpose, like they’re armor. In a way they are. They hide his eyes (and therefore his soul, because windows and all that), safely reflecting other people’s emotions right back at them, though he knows it’s not enough to fool his sisters who know him inside and out and are generally insufferable about it.

It’s a short drive to the park, and from there a walk of a few minutes to the green patch of grass near the bandstand where Laura has set up an offensively bright picnic blanket held down with weights that have hideously jolly balloons attached to them. 

There’s a sickeningly charming wicker picnic basket and what looks like all Cora’s favourite food but in adorable miniature versions and Derek is absolutely not in the mood to stomach any of it. 

Laura jumps to her feet when she spots him and runs over, placing a fuchsia pink party hat on his head and twanging the elastic strap under his chin. 

‘There,’ she says in satisfaction, airily kissing him on the cheek while she ignores his murderous glare. ‘Perfect. Come on, she’s here, we need to sing!’

He grits his teeth, clutching the grocery bag closer to his black t-shirt clad chest as he follows her bright smile and swoop of dark hair back towards the blanket. 

This is going to be hell. 

Forty minutes and several adorable (and delicious) mini sliders later, Derek is stretched out on his back on the blanket, full of processed meat and cheese and just enough beer to be loose and relaxed, only he isn’t. He’s still all keyed up, and this fact has predictably not bypassed his sisters.

‘Yo, Derek,’ Cora rolls over onto her side and pokes a bony finger into his stomach. ‘What’s up with you?’

Derek sighs. ‘Nothing, just tired from work.’ It's not missing Stiles that's making him grumpy. It's _not._ It's just that it's too hot, and there's one persistent fly that keeps bugging him, and everything is just a little bit off. 

‘You work too much,’ Laura says, taking a long pull from her beer. ‘You need to get a life.’

‘No, he needs to get laid!’ Cora adds with a laugh. 

Derek wills his face to stay impassive, wills his ears to stay their normal shade, but somehow – somehow – his sisters _know._ They always know.

‘Ooh,’ Cora squeaks in a pitch only dogs should be able to hear. She jabs him several more times in the stomach, like she might pummel the information out of him. ‘Der-ber _is_ getting laid!’

‘Jesus, please don’t use that god-awful nickname and the phrase ‘getting laid’ in the same sentence,’ Derek protests. ‘And anyway, I’m not.’ 

‘Lies!’ Laura declare, sitting up so she has better access to poke at his other side. 

Ugh. Sisters are the _worst._

‘Who is it, Der? C’mon, you gotta tell me! It’s my birthday!’ Cora beams at him winningly.

Derek is unmoved. ‘Nothin’ to tell.’ 

Cora pouts impressively. ‘Either you tell me now or I’ll make it my birthday wish Derek, so help me you know I will!’ 

_No,_ thinks Derek in exasperation. _So help **him.**_

He shakes his head stubbornly.

‘Well…’ Laura muses, ‘You at least have to tell us who that is.’

‘Who _who_ is?’ Derek scowls, though his aviators tragically undermine the effect. 

‘That guy.’ She tilts her beer bottle somewhere that’s out of Derek’s field of vision.

He huffs. ‘What guy?’

‘The one over there shouting your name and barely restraining himself from bounding over here like a giant puppy,’ Laura replies, amused. 

‘What.’ Derek sits up, blinking over in the direction Laura is pointing and then blinking again because – it can’t be but – it certainly seems to be Stiles, in khakis and a pale blue t-shirt, waving in a flaily, dorky way and grinning like an idiot. ‘Oh god,’ Derek says, slowly waving his own arm in an awkward, jerky returning salute. 

Stiles’ grin grows wider still and he starts to jog over. 

‘So who is it?’ Laura demands, but Derek’s too overcome to answer.

Derek casts around for words but finds none. He wasn’t expecting to see Stiles ‘til later so he’s not prepared for this, and he’s _definitely_ not prepared for Stiles to meet his sisters, because he doesn’t know how to introduce him and… yeah, it’s fair to say he’s totally overwhelmed. 

‘Earth to Derek!’ Cora shouts in frustration. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her arm move, and something small and round sails past Derek’s face, far to close for comfort. He barely manages to duck out of the way in time, turning his head automatically just in time to see whatever it is hit Stiles square between the eyes. In slow motion Stiles falters mid-stride, blinking rapidly in surprise, and then trips over a root, windmills his arms and falls heavily to the floor. 

‘Holy shit!’ Derek jumps to his feet, aghast.

‘Oh my god Cora, you killed him!’ Laura squeals from somewhere behind him. 

‘Oh _fuck!’_ Cora jumps up, hands to her mouth. ‘I meant to hit _you,_ not him!’

‘Fuck…’ Derek’s already in motion, sprinting as fast as he can across the twenty or thirty feet of distance to where Stiles is prone on the ground in a sprawl of limbs. His thundering heart stops dead for a second when he sees the smear of bright red oozing across the pale skin of Stiles’ forehead. 

‘Fuck, are you okay?’ He falls to his knees, gently patting Stiles down for breaks or concussion, chest constricting further when he realises Stiles is shaking. 

Only - wait… It dawns on Derek, far too slowly, that Stiles isn’t shaking through fear or shock, he’s shaking with _laughter,_ the fucking idiot. 

‘Fuck you Stilinski, you scared the hell out of me!’ he mutters, thankful that his aviators will have concealed a lot of his panic. 

‘M’fine, Derek,’ Stiles says softly. ‘Pride’s a little bruised, along with my ass, but otherwise I’m totally fine…’

Derek nods to the red seeping violently over Stiles’ temple. ‘Are you sure?’ 

‘Yeah. Oh… This?’ Stiles swipes his fingers through it. ‘It’s jelly.’

‘What.’ 

Stiles nods to the small, round object which landed several feet away. On closer inspection Derek can see that it’s a donut. 

For fuck’s sake.

‘See? I’m fine.’ Stiles winks impishly. ‘She just glazed me.’ 

Derek doesn’t know whether to kiss him or shove him back down in the dirt. He compromises by glaring at him _so hard._

‘Dare I ask why your lady companion tried to take me out with baked goods?’ Stiles asks, licking at his fingers and rubbing at the jelly. 

Derek very deliberately does not look at his long pink tongue brushing along those slender fingers. He clears his throat a little. ‘Ah, it was meant for me,’ he says apologetically. 

Stiles gives him a quizzical look. 

‘She’s my sister,’ Derek says by way of explanation. 

‘Ah. I see,’ Stiles says, with a nod. ‘I mean not really, ‘cos I’m an only child and all. But I’m led to believe it’s reasonably standard sibling behaviour to try to kill each other with various foodstuffs.’ 

Derek nods in agreement because, yeah, fair. He supposes he should just be grateful it was a donut and not a pineapple, which is the last thing Cora threw at him. That had hurt like a mother-fucker. Cora played ball in college, and has a hell of an arm on her. He’s half proud, half terrified. 

'So those are your sisters, huh?' Stiles eyes them curiously.

'Yup. Family picnic, remember?'

'Just you guys? No Uncle Peter?'

Derek frowns a little. He doesn't remember mentioning Peter before, but he supposes he must have done. Or it's very possible someone at work did, since Peter co-owns the contract that rents the warehouse space. Stiles must really have a memory for details. 

‘No, just us. What are you doing here, anyway?’ Derek asks gently. ‘You stalking me?’

Stiles scrunches up his face and makes a ‘pshaw’ noise. ‘No, I was at the diner on second, meeting Matt to go over one of my courses for next year.’

‘Matt.’ Derek glances around but there’s no one but Stiles in sight. Well, Stiles and also his sisters, whom Derek is determinedly ignoring, especially because that unwelcome little flare of jealousy is spiking up again in his stomach and he really doesn’t want his sisters to notice.

‘We grabbed lunch and it was a nice day so I decided to walk off the curly fries after he made tracks.’ Stiles shrugs, rubbing the last of the jelly off his forehead, and brushes some dirt off his khakis before he says, ‘Nice headgear, by the way. Very festive.’ 

‘Shit,’ Derek mutters, snatching the luridly pink party hat off his head, certain his ears must be about the same shade of pink. Sisters are the _worst._

‘See?’ Stiles grins up at him, leaning back on his hands so the fabric of his t shirt stretches enticingly over his chest. ‘Cute.’ 

The blush burns over Derek’s cheeks.

‘Damnit,’ Stiles says, solemnly, studying Derek’s face. ‘Now I’m gonna need to take you into these woods over here and blow you.’

Derek blinks, taken aback by the sudden change in direction. ‘Right now?’ 

Stiles nods. ‘Immediately. If not sooner.’ 

The rapid descent of all his blood right back into his crotch leaves Derek dazed enough that all he manages is ‘Um…’ before Stiles is on his feet and tugging at Derek’s sleeve, drawing him off into a large thicket of trees where they can’t be seen from the field or path. 

Derek would never normally contemplate anything like this in public, but the burn of his jealousy echoes through his stomach and chest, and the relief that Stiles isn’t seriously hurt makes him light-headed, and yeah. He just wants Stiles' hands on him right now, and to put his hands on Stiles in return.

He manages to wave distractedly to his nosy sisters, and then lets Stiles lead him through the trees until they find somewhere secluded. As soon as they have privacy Stiles backs him up against a tree and kisses him, hands fisted in his t shirt. Derek throws his sunglasses down on the ground somewhere, not caring that he feels more vulnerable without them. Stiles has got him. 

Stiles’ mouth is searingly eager, his tongue quicksilver, and Derek opens up for him immediately, hands going straight to cup his ass (because it really is sorta perfect).  
Stiles wastes no time going for the hem of Derek’s t shirt, rucking it up to run his fingers over the planes of Derek’s stomach and chest, making all sorts of soft, desperately needy little noises. It’s unbearably hot, especially when his criminally talented mouth finds the tender skin beneath Derek’s ear and sucks gently at it, making Derek’s hips buck forward.

‘Wanna taste you… You good with that?’ Stiles breathes into his neck, voice gravelly with lust. 

_’God yes…’_ Derek groans out on an exhale. 

He can feel the curve of Stiles’ smile against his skin. ‘Do we need a condom, big guy?’ 

‘Uh…’ Derek blinks back to reality. ‘I just got tested last month and everything was fine. Haven’t hooked up since. But it’s totally fine if you wanna use one.’ 

‘Nah, just checking.’ Stiles brushes his lips all the way down to Derek’s collarbone, the scratch of his stubble making Derek shudder, and then he falls to his knees and nuzzles his face into the crease of Derek’s thigh like he can’t wait to get his mouth on him. 

Derek’s head drops back against the rough back of the tree behind him. The thicket of trees is blissfully quiet, sunlight filtering through the branches and dappling onto the ground around them. The only sound is his own heavy breath, and distant birdsong, the scent of earth filling his nose. He closes his eyes, watching bright phosphenes bloom behind his eyelids, and feels like he might float away if not for the grounding pressure of Stiles’ fingertips holding him firmly by the hips. 

Stiles gets his jeans undone and pulls them and his boxers down around his thighs, swallowing Derek down immediately, and it occurs to Derek that this whole family picnic thing has worked out way better than he ever imagined it would. 

And then Stiles flickers his tongue and hollows his cheeks, and Derek can’t think any thoughts at all. 

All he can do is give himself over to the velvet heat of Stiles’ mouth, the lewd sound of Stiles’ tongue on his skin, and the rough bark under his hands where he’s digging his fingers into the tree. 

He hardly dares to look in case the sight of Stiles on his knees sends him over the edge way too soon, but in the end he does, he can’t resist. Stiles’ eyelashes are thick over his cheekbones, his lips stretched and perfectly pink, and yeah. It’s every bit as hot as Derek imagined it would be. 

And then Stiles glances up at him, eyes warm, and somehow he fucking _smiles_ around Derek’s dick before reaching up to grab Derek’s hands, drawing one to tangle his hair before lacing his long, beautiful fingers through Derek’s other hand.

It makes the whole thing ridiculously sweet as well as ridiculously sexy, and after that it doesn’t take long at all, under Stiles’ skilful ministrations, for Derek to feel the familiar heat pool in his belly, his hips making small, aborted thrusts as pleasure rolls through him in waves. 

He manages to choke out Stiles’ name in warning, but Stiles just squeezes his hand firmly in an indication to carry on, and then he’s coming, long and luscious down Stiles’ throat,

‘Oh _shit…’_ Derek whispers, sagging back against the tree because apparently his spine has melted into a puddle from all that heat. He’s still gripping Stiles’ hand, not letting go even as Stiles gets to his feet. ‘C’mere.’

He pulls Stiles into him, holding him close to his chest and tipping up his chin to kiss him, sighing a little at the taste of himself on Stiles’ tongue. 

Stiles smiles, slow and satisfied. ‘Think we’re even now, big guy.’ 

Derek shakes his head wordlessly, still sagged back against the tree, which makes Stiles laugh, and it’s really that that makes the whole thing perfect, Derek thinks. 

They prop each other up in silence for a couple of minutes, Derek rubbing slow circles into Stiles' back.

‘Won't your sisters be wondering where you are?’ Stiles murmurs, though he doesn’t lift his head from Derek’s chest. 

The air turns a little awkward as it occurs to Derek that he probably should offer for Stiles to join them, but he gets all tangled up with how to begin explaining who Stiles is to them, because he's not at all sure he can explain that to himself right now.

The silence lingers a beat too long, and Derek doesn’t miss the shadow that flits over Stiles’ face. It’s just a hint of disappointment, or hurt, and though it’s gone as fast as it appeared it makes Derek’s stomach churn. 

‘Stiles…’ he finally says. 

‘No worries, Boss-man,’ Stiles says, a smile back on his face – only this one is forced. ‘Get back to your family. I gotta split anyway.’ He leans in to press one last lingering kiss to Derek’s mouth, and when he pulls back he looks a little more himself. ‘I’ll see you at work, okay?’ 

‘Yeah…’ Derek says, frustrated with himself at how inadequate he sounds. ‘See you at work.’

Stiles slips away, and Derek misses the warmth of him immediately. 

He sighs deeply, and tidies himself up. As he retrieves his sunglasses from where he’d carelessly flung them on the ground he wonders if he shouldn’t have tried to be braver. 

Deep down though, he knows that introducing Stiles to his sisters would make it all seem… real. 

And Stiles is still leaving soon, after all. 

He braces himself for the inevitable interrogation as he re-joins his sisters, making up a half-assed excuse about Stiles, who works with him, having lost his dog in the woods and needing Derek’s help to find it. 

It’s clear they’re unconvinced, but something about his demeanour stops them from prying any further, which he’s incredibly grateful for. 

By the time he gets into work several hours later, Stiles is completely back to his usual self, sparkling at Derek from across the warehouse. Derek watched him with anxious eyes, more worried than he'd like to admit that he's fucked it all up.

They don't get a chance to talk, but Derek has just run a sink of soapy water at the end of the shift when Stiles joins him with an obnoxious comment about his rubber gloves, which makes something settle more comfortably in Derek’s chest. 

‘We’re running later, right?’ He asks, sounding more anxious than he’d like. 

Stiles stops in his tracks and looks over at him with eyes that are soft with understanding. ‘Yeah.’ 

Derek nods and lets out a relieved breath. ‘Good.’ 

Stiles elbows him a little and beams. ‘Pass the gloves, I’ll wash.'

Derek hands them over without protest, and they fall into silence for a second before Stiles breaks the quiet with, 'So I had a thought…’ 

‘Oh, god,’ Derek mutters. This doesn’t bode well. 

‘No, wait, it’s a really good one this time…’ Stiles snaps on the rubber gloves with way too much relish. 

Derek sighs. 

‘Okay, so it occurred to me... If vampires don’t need oxygen wouldn’t they make the best divers ever? They could just like, weigh themselves down with rocks and lurk around the ocean floor. There’s not even any sunlight down there. There’s probably entire covens down there, plotting how they're going to take over the world.' He spins around, brandishing a soapy teaspoon. 'I bet that’s why deep sea diving is so dangerous!’ 

Derek wonders, not for the first time, about his taste in men. 

He manages to keep a straight face up until Stiles hums the first chords of a familiar song from The Little Mermaid, before launching into an enthusiastically massacred rendition of ‘Un _dead_ the sea’, complete with air steel pans, shaking his ass around the kitchen. He winks lasciviously at Derek right as he sings ‘Darling it’s better, down where it’s wetter’, and Derek can't help it - he laughs. 

Stiles skids to a halt, delighted. ‘You laughed!’

‘Nope.’ Derek shakes his head. ‘It was a cough.’

Stiles smirks, unbearably smug, as he peels off the rubber gloves. ‘It was a laugh. You think I’m fucking hilarious!’ 

‘No, I think you’re fucking deluded.’ 

‘Hey…’ Stiles steps into him and presses his hand gently to Derek’s throat. ‘Say that again, Hale.’

Derek’s breath catches in his chest, but he keeps his face stony. ‘Not funny.’

Stiles snorts. ‘Definitely lying. 

(Derek hates this heartbeat trick.) 

'Keep telling yourself that, Stilinski.'

‘Don’t even. You think I’m hilarious and enchanting and-'

Derek kisses him quiet, right there in the middle of the kitchen, because this is apparently who he is now.

He thinks he might be good with it.

The next afternoon they run a little in the Preserve, but before long Derek has Stiles backed up against a tree, lips attached to the slender column of his throat, stroking him until he spills warm over Derek’s fingers. 

Unconsciously and oh so easily they fall into a pattern of hooking up every afternoon, wound around each other in the jeep or various secluded parts of the Preserve, connecting with their hands and mouths. It’s an unspoken agreement that this is their thing – they don’t go to each other’s places, and they don’t ask each other why.

Maybe it wouldn’t be enough if that was all it was, Derek thinks. But somehow their habitual half an hour of doing dishes together at the end of each shift feels just as intimate, giving them a chance to really get to know each other as well, and Derek finds he likes this time together just as much as their hot, desperate hook ups every afternoon. He learns that Stiles’ dad is the Sheriff in the next town over, and that that's the only reason Stiles' teenage shenanigans hadn't wound up with him in serious trouble, and that Stiles has known Scott for so long he considers him his brother. He finds out what Stiles dreams about every night and the plot for the trilogy of sci-fi novels Stiles plans to write before he’s forty. 

But for everything he learns about Stiles, there’s still so much he doesn’t know. Stiles never talks about college, or what he plans to do afterward. When the conversation veers close to it, Stiles clams up and gets evasive, and that worries Derek a little because Stiles is so open otherwise. 

But then, it’s not like Derek’s baring everything of his own soul either.

They both know this is temporary. 

And yeah, Derek might have discovered that Stiles’ wit is as quicksilver as his tongue, and he may have grown addicted both to the way those long, gorgeous hands touch him and the way Stiles moves them when he’s talking about something he’s really passionate about, but he’s still painfully aware that there’s an end date on this whole thing that he’s beginning to dread, because it turns out he’s not better than this. 

Not even a little bit. 

And he’s not sure what he’ll do when it’s gone.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, here there be angst - it shouldn't be too bad but I'm apparently incapable of writing anything wholly angst free. 
> 
> All will become clear in the next chapter.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading - it's truly, genuinely appreciated.

Derek’s radio crackles to life with a second or two of static. It never fails to jerk Derek’s attention back from wherever it’s wandered to, sending a sharp spike of adrenaline down his veins. 

He brings his hand swiftly to the button on his shoulder comm, ready to process whatever comes down the line and take charge of the situation accordingly. 

He waits, breath held so he can’t miss any crucial details. 

What comes, eventually, in Stiles’ unmistakable voice, is ‘I like to move it, move it.’ 

There’s a long moment of silence where Derek glares at the little speaker and grinds his teeth and hopes none of the rest of his team of idiots take the bait, but alas, presently (this time in Scott’s voice, because of course) comes, ‘I like to move it, move it.’ 

And then, unbelievably, it’s Boyd who lets him down next. ‘I like to move it, move it.’ 

Another two second pause and four or five voices, including Erica’s, chime together, ‘We like to – _move it!’_

Derek drops his head onto his desk in despair, while one of the idiots (sadly he suspects it’s rolled back around to _his_ idiot – not that Stiles is _his_ exactly, but still) beat-boxes down their mic. Badly. 

He sighs, from his toes, and then presses the tiny button on his shoulder mic. 

‘Listen up, morons,’ he grits out, ‘I’m assuming none of you have recently become members of a tribute Reel 2 Real band, and to the best of my knowledge not one of you is an animated singing lemur, so do yourselves a favour and shut the fuck up.’ 

The beat-boxing stops abruptly and there’s a long, sulky pause, before someone ( _definitely_ his idiot) says, huffily, ‘Looks like _someone_ don’t like to move it, move it.’

Derek breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth and counts to ten, very slowly. 

Goddamn _Stiles._ Most days, despite their body-meltingly hot hook-ups, Derek still wants to punch him in the face. With his mouth. 

Goddamn Stiles.

***

‘Hey hey, Boss-man,’ Stiles says a couple days later, leaning on the door-frame of Derek’s office, hands in his pockets.

Derek leans back a little in his chair and smirks. ‘Hey. You okay?’ 

‘Yeah…’ Stiles makes his way into the room, pushing the door shut behind him, and then crosses to perch on the desk near Derek. He crosses and uncrosses his legs at the ankle, shifts around, rubs his palms on his thighs, and generally acts like a shifty fucker. 

Derek quirks a brow, suspiciously. ‘What’s up, Stiles?’

Stiles casts a few nervous looks around the office to make sure it’s empty, and Derek wonders ( _hopes_ really, if he’s honest) if he’s about to be jumped in his own office chair, but then Stiles licks his lips and says, ‘Are you free Saturday? Scott’s out all night and I thought maybe you could come over to my place.’ 

‘Your place?’ Derek blinks slowly. This is new ground, for them, since they’ve only hooked up in the jeep and on the Preserve (and okay, in the store room, and on that one memorable occasion Derek had blown Stiles in the warehouse bathroom). Derek can’t help but wonder if it means something. Something hopeful swoops in his stomach. He ignores it. 

‘I was just gonna order a pizza. Hang. You know. Super chill.’ Stiles looks away, and when he looks back he’s biting his lip over an impish grin. ‘Thought it might be cool to take my time with you.’ 

Heart hammering at the words and Stiles’ low, sultry tone, Derek clears his throat. ‘Oh. You’re sure Scott won’t suspect anything?’

Stiles snorts. ‘Naw. Scott’s the best dude I’ve ever known, except my dad, but one time I told him north was straight up in the air and he totally believed me. For, like, two years, I shit you not. He was twenty-two.’ Stiles shrugs and grins. ‘So, yeah, I’m not worried.’ 

Derek frowns. ‘I don’t… Did he… just think the polar bears were floating around on clouds, or what?’

‘I don’t know, big guy.’ Stiles shrugs. ‘Scott’s mind is a naïve, beautiful mystery. All I know is that he’s being wined and dined at Isaac’s on Saturday and yours truly has an empty pad. So. You, me, netflix and chill. You down?’

‘I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, you know that, right?’

Stiles grins, and leans in to brush a kiss across Derek’s mouth. ‘It means you’re gonna get laid, Derek.’

‘Oh.’ Derek feels heat creep up the back of his neck. ‘Well, then. I’ll be there.’ 

Stiles smiles against his lips, darting his tongue out to turn the kiss briefly, fiercely filthy. ‘Good. Six?’

Derek nods silently, kissed into incoherency. 

Stiles grins knowingly as he slides off the desk and slips out of the room, hands back in his pockets, fucking _whistling_ all nonchalant like he’s not a goddamn sex fiend sent to ruin Derek’s life and reputation. 

_Goddamn_ Stiles. 

***

When Saturday rolls around it finds Derek oddly nervous. He changes up his Henley five times before settling for the first one he’d put on, and mentally smacks himself upside the head for being such a dick about it. Cora says all his tops look the same anyway, and it’s not like Stiles is even in a position to judge given that his current favorite tee is retina-searingly yellow and has _**‘If you don’t like tacos I’m nacho type’**_ emblazoned across the chest in bright green letters. The ‘t’ of ‘tacos’ is wearing a fuchsia pink sombrero and a culturally insensitive mustache. Stiles fucking _adores_ it.

So yeah, Derek could pick any one of his five identical henleys and it would be better than the nacho shirt. And anyway, this isn’t a _date._ It’s just two guys taking advantage of an empty house so they can finally get each other ass naked, which, if Derek’s honest, is maybe what has him nervous. The whole peep-show/groping/getting-off-as-fast-as-possible-in-public-spaces vibe they’ve had going on has had it’s definite merits, but for some reason the thought of Stiles stripping him down, laying him out in an actual bed, and taking his time with him fills Derek with deliciously sweet-sharp butterflies. 

The heightened sense of anticipation doesn’t exactly fade away when Stiles opens the door wearing rarely worn jeans, a red button down, and a nervous smile of his own.

It’s a fancier get-up than Derek is expecting, which leaves him feeling slightly wrong-footed. 

‘Hi,’ he says, holding out a six pack he’d bought on the way over. ‘You look good.’ 

‘Thanks,’ Stiles says, just a little breathless. ‘You, too. Come on in. You know the way, right? Let’s put these in the kitchen.

Derek wants to brush a kiss to Stiles’ cheek as he heads through to the kitchen, but he’s nervous to do anything that would make this seem too much like a date, since Stiles took such pains to stress how casual it is, so he ends up with Stiles trailing him, making small talk at a million miles an hour instead.

In the kitchen Stiles is suddenly overcome by silence. Derek feels too big and hulking against the country style cabinetry, too dark against the chintzy curtains, and not involved enough in Stiles’ life to be here in the heart of his home, where he makes pop-tarts in his underwear in the mornings and drinks milk straight from the bottle. 

Stiles seems equally as uncomfortable, unable to stop himself from fidgeting in his pressed shirt and crisp jeans. ‘Uh,’ he says, popping the top off a beer and handing it to Derek. ‘Good day?’

‘It was alright. You?’ Derek takes a slow sip of the lukewarm beer. 

Stiles shrugs and toes at the linoleum, and it’s just terribly, terribly awkward, which is surprising considering they’ve already touched each other’s dicks on numerous occasions. Derek has no idea how to make it better. 

He asks after Stiles’ dad, and Scott, which Stiles dutifully answers, but his comment on the lovely weather they’ve been having is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. 

‘Fuck, this is awkward isn’t it?’ Stiles blurts out, running a hand through his hair. ‘Why is this so awkward?’

Derek shakes his head helplessly, though he’s light with relief that Stiles is addressing it so directly rather than letting it drag on. ‘I don’t know.’

Stiles purses his lips and taps the neck of his bottle against them. ‘I say we power through. Who knows what stimulating and satisfying conversational wonders await us on the other side of all this stilted awkwardness?! It’s like with food – it’s amazing what you can eat once you just push past that gag reflex.’ 

Derek rolls his eyes heaven-ward and questions, not for the first time, his taste in men. He thinks maybe he should have jumped Stiles’ bones the second he walked in the door, because at least that way Stiles would only have had very limited opportunities to say words. In fact, there might be something to that, still… 

‘Maybe we should try less talking and more… doing?’ he suggests, to try to steer them out of this sad gray not-a-date no-man’s land and towards the safe black and white hook-up zone.

Stiles downs his beer in three or four large gulps and sort of leers at Derek, which should absolutely not be as attractive as it somehow is. ‘Excellent plan, Der-bear. A little less conversation, a little more action please, in the immortal words of Elvis. Who was, incidentally, known to be excellent at all the sex. Dear god please say that in an Elvis voice, I will pay you so much money.’

Derek snorts. ‘You don’t have enough money.’

‘Nah, probably true.’ Stiles slumps down dejectedly, then brightens. ‘Hey, Derek, can I borrow like, a lot of money? For _reasons…’_ He waggles his eyebrows and is perfect and ridiculous.

Derek decides it’s time to take control of the situation – or Stiles, specifically – before either spiral any further. He sets his beer bottle down on the kitchen counter, takes Stiles’ face in his hands, and kisses him. 

Stiles makes one of his wonderful little desperate noises and clutches at Derek’s shoulders, tugging at Derek’s lower lip with his teeth, and just like that everything seems to settle into the sense of rightness that Derek’s been missing.

He presses as much of himself up against Stiles as he can, backing him up against the counter, soaking in the scent of him. He swallows every soft, needy noise Stiles makes, breathes in his air, lets the kiss consume them both. He wants, he thinks muzzily through the haze of his lust, to consume all of Stiles, if Stiles will let him – to lick and bite and breathe and taste all of him – because Stiles tastes and smells and fits just right, nothing is more right than when they’re together like this.

He startles a little as he processes the implications of that thought, dropping his head and grazing his teeth over the sensitive skin of Stiles’ throat to distract him from his sudden hesitation.

Stiles laughs, then, a contented sound that rumbles up through his chest like a purr, and Derek holds on to Stiles just a little tighter – for dear life, maybe – because of the way the sound settles in his own chest, curling around and around into a satisfied little ball.

‘Okay then…’ Stiles murmurs hoarsely. ‘Less talking, for the win.’ 

‘Uh huh,’ Derek agrees, because they definitely shouldn’t talk now. He doesn’t know what he might say. Maybe _'I like you.'_ Maybe _''You feel right.'_ Maybe _'Please, please stay.'_ He bites his lip to keep the absurdities from spilling out. It’s nothing that should be said aloud. Far better to occupy his mouth in other ways. ‘Wanna move this to the couch?’ 

‘Yeah. Yes. Definitely.’ Stiles licks his lips. ‘Only first I gotta take a leak. Why don’t you get comfy and I’ll… Yeah.’ He gestures in the direction of the half-bath with a thumb and sidles away, not breaking eye contact with Derek until the last possible moment. 

Derek puts his palms out and leans on the cool counter, trying to ground himself. Trying to breathe. 

A strangled squawk from the direction of the bathroom makes him whip around, listening hard. There’s another sound – a muffled whimper – and Derek is crossing the room in big strides. 

‘Stiles?’ He presses a hand to the closed bathroom door. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing!’ Stiles replies, but his voice is much too high, more like a sob.

‘Stiles.’

‘I’m fine,’ Stiles says in that same, strange tone. 

_’Stiles.’_

There’s a muffled, resigned curse from behind the door, and then Stiles speaks again, much closer this time. ‘It’s possible that during the course of my ablutions I may have inadvertently and very unfortunately, uh… Caught my dick in my zipper.’ 

Derek blinks at the door in disbelief. ‘You did _what.’_

‘For fuck’s sake, Derek,’ Stiles snaps back. ‘I’ve zipperdicked myself, okay? The bone ranger is behind bars. The artful todger’s caught in a trap. My fucking penis is caught in my pants, dude! I am… _enmeshed!’_ At the last word the cadence of Stiles’ voice rises high and desperate enough that Derek’s pretty sure only dogs can hear it. 

‘Um,’ Derek says helpfully, cringing vicariously both at Stiles' pain and his embarrassment.

‘I know! And now I don’t know whether to undo quickly and get it over with, like ripping off a band-aid, only with the possibility of ripping off Baron von Weinerschnitzel…’

Derek can only stare at the door, aghast, mouthing ‘Baron von Weinerschnitzel’ to himself silently.

‘Or do I go slow and suffer but hopefully keep my dick attached to myself!’

‘I don’t… I don’t know, Stiles,’ Derek says helplessly.

‘See? Fair to say I’m in a bit of a pickle here, big guy! Do I snip the red wire or the green wire? Which is more likely to snip my own wire? There’s no right answer when the schlong’s gone wrong, dude!’

‘Just breathe, Stiles, it’s gonna be okay. Just go slow. Nice and easy, okay?’

‘’Kay…’ comes Stiles’ wobbly reply. 

There’s another high, pained noise, and several agonising seconds of quiet before finally Stiles yelps, triumphantly. 

‘All good?’ Derek dares to venture. 

‘Well, my apparel and I have achieved twoness!’ Stiles pulls open the bathroom door a little but keeps his body angled behind it. ‘But I don’t think my weapon of ass destruction is gonna be ready for deployment any time soon.’ He looks so unutterably sad when he says this that Derek can’t help but lean in and kiss him firmly on the mouth. 

‘You’re ridiculous,’ he says gently. ‘It’s fine. We can watch a movie or something.’

‘Okay,’ Stiles agrees woefully, hanging his head. 

Derek hooks a finger under his chin and tips his face up so he can duck in to kiss him once more. When he pulls back, Stiles’ lips are _just_ curving into a smile.

‘You can fuck me another day,’ Derek promises into the shell of his ear. Stiles’ face splits into a radiant grin that has Derek rolling his eyes. ‘Although I can’t believe I’m saying this to someone who genuinely uses the phrase Baron von Weinerschnitzel.’ 

‘I am a master articulator,’ Stiles says with a confidence that is at odds with his pale, pained face, cheeks glazed with a few streaky tear tracks. He opens the door, but keeps his hands firmly cupped over his crotch. His jeans are up but his fly is wide open. His ears are ablaze. Nevertheless, he keeps his chin up. ‘I’m a fucking _wordsmith_ is what I am. You’re so lucky,’ he teases. 

Derek smirks and tuts but dutifully fetches the coldest thing in Stiles’ fridge – a large steak – and wraps it securely in saran wrap before handing it over to Stiles so he can use it as a make-shift ice pack. 

‘Aw, man,’ Stiles grumbles as he waddles in the direction of the couch. ‘This was gonna be dinner. Dude, I am _never_ going commando again, no matter how liberatingly sexified it makes me feel.’ 

Derek chuffs. ‘You are-' he catches himself right before he utters the words _'the cutest fucking thing'_ , floundering for a second before he settles on the far less dangerous, ‘-such a dumbass.’

Stiles arranges himself gingerly on the sofa, nodding in sad agreement. 

Derek opens a kitchen cabinet, surveying the many varieties of barbecue sauce with amused irritation. ‘Were you really gonna make dinner?’ he calls out. 

‘Of course I was!’ Stiles sounds affronted at the very suggestion he might have left Derek with an empty stomach. ‘I was gonna make steak. Au poivre.’ 

Derek’s hands still, and he has to lean his forehead against the cabinet door until he gets his shit-eating grin under control. Stiles was going to make him steak. He wonders if maybe this was more than just a hook up for Stiles, too. 

He clears his throat. ‘You want me to order a pizza?’

‘No,’ Stiles replies dolefully. ‘I don’t think I can handle the sight of salami right now…’ 

‘Well,’ Derek says, sticking his head into the living room, smirking at Stiles laid out with a steak clasped to his junk. ‘Since the steak’s been repurposed, you’re gonna have to settle for ramen. Au cup.’ He rattles the instant ramen cup in front of Stiles.

‘You’re on,’ Stiles smiles up at him like Derek’s offered him the moon or something, which makes all of Derek’s deep-down caveman instincts to protect and provide go a little bit crazy. He shakes himself out of it and goes to flick on the kettle. 

Goddamn Stiles. 

***

Somehow, when Derek carries the two cups of ramen back into the living room, he ends up wedged right at the end of the couch with Stiles sprawled languidly all over him like a Stiles-skin rug, slurping noodles loudly. 

He sighs. He doesn’t normally like having people right up in his space. 

He _should_ hate this. It _should_ be a sigh of irritation. But he doesn’t, and it’s not. 

He’s warm, he’s comfortable, and he’s with a cute (albeit ridiculous) guy who makes him laugh more than he’d care to admit. 

He casts a glance down to where Stiles’ head is resting in the crook of his shoulder, enjoying how nicely he fits there. 

He finds he doesn’t mind about sex being off the table, as long as he gets to stay here, in this peaceful moment. Even if Stiles does have a steak on his crotch. 

Some movie or other is flickering onscreen, but Derek doesn’t care what it is. He’s not even aware of it, so focused is he on the weight of Stiles against him, and the sweep his thumb is making against the smooth skin of one of Stiles’ hipbones, where his hand had fallen once he’d slung his arm around Stiles’ shoulders. It’s a small, innocent motion – just a crescent with the pad of his thumb, up and down, up and down, but for some reason this one press of skin, this one point of heat, feels overwhelmingly intimate and intense. 

A hitch in Stiles’ breath makes him realise that Stiles has looked up, and their gazes lock together. 

The sun is setting outside, making the room glow amber and lighting up the gold and copper strands peppered through Stiles’ hair. Slowly Derek raises his hand, and gently strokes his fingers through the thick softness of it. 

Stiles’ skin is gilded in this light, eyes molten and watching him with a heat Derek’s not sure he’s seen before. His tongue darts out between his lips, pink and wet. Derek can’t help but track the motion. 

‘Derek,’ Stiles breathes out. ‘I know we said we weren’t gonna talk, but…’ 

Derek wonders if Stiles can feel the heavy, too-fast beat of his heart against his breastbone. Surely he can, pressed up against him like that.

He knows better than to get his hopes up – knows Stiles belongs to a future that’s bigger and better and brighter than him. He knows he doesn’t get to have this, can’t keep it. It would be too selfish. 

But still, the hope flutters in his chest, the smallest flame stuttering stubbornly in the dark. 

‘I know we said we weren’t gonna talk,’ Stiles says softly, moving his own hand to rub dizzying, adroit circles into the Derek’s palm. ‘But, uh… I just have to tell you…’ Those beautiful eyes, lustrous like sunlit-bourbon, hold Derek’s, and for a moment Derek thinks he can see everything he feels reflected back at him. 

He almost asks, then. Almost asks, _'was this a date?'_ and _'does it feel this right for you?'_ and _'do you like me too?'_

But then Stiles’ eyes are sliding away and his mouth is twisting oddly as he says, ‘I just have to tell you that this is the worst ramen I’ve ever had in my life!’

Derek’s breathe leaves his chest in one punched-out sigh, and the space it leaves is immediately flooded with something bittersweet and painful around the edges. Surely, if Stiles felt anything _more_ for Derek he would have said so. Surely this was his moment. And now the moment has passed, and Derek has the vertiginous feeling of something fundamental having shifted, something beyond his control.

He forces a laugh. ‘Shut up,’ he says, ‘I’ve never made it before.’

Stiles is staring at him again, nose wrinkled comically. ‘What. The. Fuck. Dude, seriously? What do you just eat protein powder and, like, mung beans and shit?’

Derek laughs again, more naturally this time, and the last of the spell is broken, just like that.

The rest of the evening passes pleasantly enough. Stiles drinks all of the rest of the beers ('they're _medicinal_ , Derek!') and sometimes looks at him like he's got something right at the tip of his tongue, but nothing comes out of his mouth but snarky commentary on the film. 

And yeah, maybe Derek looks back at him the same way, in the flickering light of the tv, noticing how Stiles has drawn away from him since their moment before - and yeah, the distance is ever so slight, but it somehow feels impossibly large to Derek. 

The air between them is a little tense, maybe, but they're not _fighting_ and no-one's upset, so the time passes amicably and the ramen is indeed disgusting, and if Derek pays extra attention to the curve of Stiles’ ear or the contour of his cheek, well, Stiles never needs to know. 

Eventually Stiles falls asleep in a perfect, ungainly sprawl, his feet in Derek's lap.

When Derek moves, Stiles doesn’t, other than to burrow his face into the warmth Derek leaves behind. Derek carefully throws away the steak, now warm and unpleasantly squishy, and washes up before returning to put a throw pillow under Stiles’ head. 

‘Sorry ‘bout the sex, big guy…’ Stiles murmurs sleepily.

Derek shakes his head, lips curved into something like a smile. The ache at the base of his pelvis is easy to ignore. The ache in his chest is harder. 'Shut up, stupid.'

Stiles chuffs adorably into the pillow. 'Derek, I...' he pauses to yawn widely. 'I wanted to tell you, I...' 

'Shh,' Derek hushes him, not wanting him to say anything he doesn't mean under the influence of too much beer. 'Don't say anything you'll regret in the morning.'

Stiles pouts, but only for a moment or two before he's tailing off into tiny, adorable snores as he sinks back into slumber.

Derek presses a long kiss to his forehead before he leaves Stiles asleep on the sofa and lets himself out of the front door, for the second time. And for the second time, the click of the door as it closes feels like a missed opportunity. 

***

He doesn’t see Stiles for the rest of the weekend, and though they exchange a few texts something feels off about them. For a start they consist of a scant sentence or two, rather than the reams of abbreviations and emojis Derek usually receives from Stiles. 

It’s deeply frustrating. If Derek struggles with speaking to people face to face, then texting is infinitely worse. Stiles’ usual ‘throw all the words and emojis in there’ approach to texting is actually supremely helpful since there’s very little room left for confusion or misinterpretation. This change is sort of awful - Derek has no idea how to take the brief lines of text without any contextual clues. 

In the end he plugs his phone in, puts on his sneakers, and hits the trails, trying to outrun the emotions and doubts that bubble up, unwelcome in the back of his mind.

He chalks it up to the embarrassment of zipper-gate catching up to Stiles and resolves to make it right on Monday, trying to ignore the unsettled churning in his stomach every time he gets another unusually curt text. 

Monday brings those damned butterflies again, the fluttering of their wings spurring him to pace the hallways waiting for Stiles to arrive, but when he does it’s in a group with Scott and Isaac, and Stiles only flashes him a bare, thin smile rather than the shameless eye-fucking Derek’s become accustomed to. 

Its odd. Unease replaces the butterflies, coiling like snakes in his gut.

He manages to slip into the locker room right after Scott and Isaac head for the kitchen. 

‘Stiles… What’s going on?’ 

Stiles doesn’t turn to face him. ‘Nothing’s going on, what are you talking about?’

‘You’re… Are you avoiding me?’ Derek wants to go to Stiles, to pull him into the circle of his arms and hold him there, to find comfort in his propinquity. But Stiles’ body language is exuding some serious ‘fuck off’ vibes, so he stays put. 

‘What? No.’ But Stiles’ bristling irritation with Derek is palpable in the air between them, making his words less than reassuring. 

Derek swallows, fumbling. ‘Is this about Saturday?’

Stiles whips around to face him. ‘What?’ 

‘Are you… embarrassed? Ya know, about the… zipper thing?’ 

Stiles’ face turns stormy. ‘No, Derek. I mean it’s not like it was the greatest moment of my life or whatever, but it’s…’ He waves a hand around vaguely. ‘Not a big deal. Jeez.’ 

Derek flickers with his own lightning stabs of irritation. ‘I’m just asking if you’re alright, Stiles, god damn it. I shouldn’t have fucking bothered…’ He shakes his head. ‘See you for the briefing in ten. Don’t be late.’ He stalks off, not waiting for an answer. 

He wants to understand, thought maybe – maybe for the first time ever – that he did – but now he feels abruptly out of his depth, displaced and floundering.

The strange sense of restlessness he carries seems to extend to the rest of the team, as they’re all quiet but fidgety while he briefs them about their duties. 

Under the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen, it becomes apparent that Stiles hasn’t had a whole lot of sleep – his skin is waxy, darkening to purple shadows under his eyes. Derek feels a wave of guilt for yelling, but it evaporates when he notices something that explains the reason for Stiles’ unhealthy pallor.

‘McCall… Stilinski…’ He presses his fingers into his temples, fighting the temptation to give in to his enervation and go right home to bed. ‘Do you have _glitter_ in your hair?’

Scott ducks his head, bringing his hand to his hair. ‘Um… It’s, uh, tactical glitter, Boss?’

‘Tactical.’ Derek says dryly.

‘Yeah. Gonna use it to dazzle our enemies.’

Derek arches an eyebrow, chancing a glace at Stiles. 

‘We went out last night,’ Stiles says sullenly, clearly not inviting any further discussion.

Which is so fucking weird because Stiles is _always_ up for further discussion about _anything._ He’d usually chew Derek’s ear off for hours about going out to a club, about what to wear and who he saw and what they got up to. 

But then… Stiles stays quiet about a whole lot, too. Derek feels the back of his neck heat up as he reminds himself just how peripheral he is to Stiles’ real life, outside the little bubble of work and working-out. Maybe whatever they’ve shared really has just been a summer-time fling.

Temporary. Disposable. 

Derek makes a show of rolling his eyes, like he usually would, and returns to briefing the rest of the team who are definitely picking up on the tension in the air. Only the mention of Peter’s imminent arrival to perform some sort of audit with Lydia grabs Erica’s attention. 

‘Nooo,’ she groans, dropping her forehead to the table. ‘There’s no way I have Sunday-ed enough for this Monday.’ 

‘Erica...’ Derek warns, ‘He’ll be here for a week, and mostly during the day, so you’ll barely see him.’ 

‘Peter?’ Stiles pipes up. ‘As in, Uncle Peter?’ 

Derek nods, unable to hold back a frown. He’d prefer to keep Stiles and Peter as separate from each other as possible, since Peter is pretty much exclusively bad news, but this is beyond his control. 

‘I fucking _hate_ Uncle Peter,’ Erica grumbles darkly, messing with the Hairband of Doom on her wrist. 

‘Enough,’ Derek snaps. ‘He pays your wages, so you _will_ be at least civil, understand?’ 

Erica sniffs but gives a reluctant nod. 

‘Alright,’ he says, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. ‘You all know what to do. Go do it.’

He’s surprised to note that Stiles has already disappeared – it’s become his habit to linger, leaving Derek with some obnoxious comment or a teasing smile or that damned infuriating smirk. 

Fucking _weird._

‘I take it you’re not boning Bambi anymore?’ Erica asks from somewhere behind him.

He raises his eyebrows at her in distaste at her turn of phrase, and surprise at the meaning behind it, making her laugh. ‘You’re surly, Derek, not subtle. There’s a difference.’

‘It’s…’ He looks helplessly at the empty doorway. ‘Does everyone know?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ she says, amused. ‘Probably for longer than you did. Well, not Scott and Isaac, they’re too wrapped up in each other. Literally.’ She wrinkles her nose slightly. ‘But me, Boyd, Lydia… Yeah, we all know.’ 

He closes his eyes. ‘Fuck.’ 

‘Hey, we get it. We were all just happy you were happy.’ 

Derek rubs a hand over his jaw. _Happy._

It’s true. He has been happy. 

‘You could always try talking to him, you know,’ Erica suggests. ‘Revolutionary concept for you.’

‘Tried that already,’ he says tiredly. 

‘Huh. Then I guess give him some space until he’s ready to talk to you.’ 

‘Yeah,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Yeah.’ 

It’s not like there’s anything else he really can do. 

***

Derek throws himself into his work for the next several hours, snapping out orders and generally growling at people because he’s tired, and pissed off at Stiles and at himself and at _everything._

He doesn’t surface until dawn comes and goes. He has no idea what time it is when he drags his ass out of the attack chair to go and get coffee but he suspects it’s fairly close to the end of the shift.

He’s come to expect a certain amount of the unexpected, given that his team are who they are and the job is what it is. He likes to feel he’s reasonably well prepared for whatever insanity each day has to throw at him. 

But nothing could have prepared him for walking into the kitchen to find Peter there, and next to him, far, far, too close, Stiles. He freezes, feeling his mouth drop open as Stiles takes a guilty step back and Peter turns, his usual smug smirk just a little wider today. 

‘Ah, Derek! Good to see you!’ Peter is still handsome, hair neatly trimmed and suit expensive and impeccably fitted. Derek hates him, still. 

He hardly hears his greeting, through the furious rush of blood in his ears. 

Peter reaches out and puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Derek wills himself not to look or he knows he’ll give in to the anger and confusion that are roiling up in his chest. 

‘You never told me you had such good taste in employees,’ Peter says, voice silky and seductive. ‘I can understand why you’d keep Stiles here to yourself, hidden away on night shift.’ Derek keeps his eyes on Stiles’ face, willing him to look in his direction. He never does. 

‘He applied for the night shift,’ Derek says, fighting hard to keep his voice steady. It means it comes out more clipped than he would have liked. ‘It was… what he wanted.’ 

‘Maybe so,’ Peter replies, ‘but I think we can do better than that for your last few days here. I think I’ll utilise your particular _talents_ this week, what do you say, Stiles? I’m sure Derek can spare you.’

Derek balls his hands into fists, forcing himself to keep them down by his sides, reminding himself that, much as he hates it, his uncle pays all their wages. 

Not that it would stop him from telling him to shove it, if Stiles showed one iota of discomfort with Peter’s plan. 

But Stiles just nods and shrugs and says, ‘I’m sure he can,’ like it’s no big deal at all, and Derek’s whole chest is filled with a strange, sinking sensation.

‘Good,’ Peter’s face lights up in a vulpine grin. ‘It’s settled, then. How about I take you for breakfast? Get to know my newest recruit a little better, since we’ll be working together so closely this week.’ 

Stiles doesn’t seem overjoyed at the idea, but neither does he disagree, so Peter snakes his arm a little more snugly around Stiles’ shoulders and begins to lead him to the door.

Finally, finally Stiles looks up, and whatever he sees on Derek’s face seems to surprise him. ‘Derek…’ he says.

Derek doesn’t really want to hear whatever he’s about to say, never thought for one second their ‘goodbye’ would happen with Stiles tucked under his uncle’s arm. ‘Just go,’ he grits out. ‘Not like you owe me anything.’ 

Stiles blanches. ‘Derek, I…’ He shakes his head. ‘Thanks for everything,’ he manages to say, right as Peter tugs him out of the door, and then he’s gone. 

He’s just… gone.

Derek always knew Stiles would walk away, but he didn’t think it would go like this. 

Didn’t think it would be so soon, or so _fast._

Didn’t think it would feel so much like a betrayal. 

Because he meant it: Stiles doesn’t owe him anything. But there were things he would have liked to say. Things he fools himself into believing he’d have found the courage to say.

None of it matters, because Stiles didn’t seem to share any those reservations or hesitations. 

He just dropped everything at the first sign of a better offer, and walked right out of the door. 

Derek can’t even begin to process everything that’s happened since Saturday, doesn’t know where to start dissecting what went wrong. 

He wonders if years of keeping his emotions on a tight leash have left him totally incapable of figuring out what’s going on. Maybe it’s as he’d suspected for so long, after Kate – maybe he’s just too broken for this. 

He gives in to the only emotion he really knows what to do with: anger. He turns, pulling back his arm, and with a brief yell of rage and frustration, rams his fist into the wall. He punches a hole clean through the thin plasterboard.

The pain blossoming along his knuckles gives him something to focus on other than his failures with Stiles. Something to focus on other than the smug oiliness of Peter’s grin, and Peter’s possessive arm around Stiles’ shoulders, and the way Peter had promised Stiles he could do better than Derek. 

But the destruction is just a temporary fix, he knows.

Derek stares at the hole for a second, before slowly filling his mug with too-hot, too-stewed coffee. He digs shaking fingers back into his temples, exhaling heavily through his nose. Little stars burst at the edges of his vision, a sure sign he’s working up to one hell of a Stiles-shaped headache. 

_Goddamn Stiles._


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a grand revelation which will surprise no-one but Derek.
> 
> Also, I don't really write a whole lot of anything resembling action (and this only does *resemble* action lolol) so... yeah. Forgive my inexperience and any wild inaccuracies, mostly I just write about donuts and boys in love. :p

Tuesday’s shift passes by, slow, uneventful, and oh so quiet. Derek doesn’t see Stiles, not even when he stays an hour past his shift-end (it’s so he can re-plaster the hole he’d punched in the wall, okay, not because he’s hoping to see anyone in particular, _especially_ not Stiles).

But just because he doesn’t _see_ Stiles doesn’t mean the idiot isn’t _everywhere_ Derek goes – in the faint cracks in the glaze of Derek’s mug, in the emptiness of Derek’s attack chair, in the silence of the kitchen when Derek snaps off his rubber gloves. His life is the same but abruptly different. On the surface it's identical to how it used to be just a few months previous, but if you look close enough, really _look_ , you can see the seams have changed. It's something else, now - a tessellation of spaces where Stiles used to be. Derek chooses not to look.

His team are predictably pouty over Stiles’ shift move, except for Scott who just smiles his guileless smile and goes about his business (albeit with a great deal less mischief than when he’s under Stiles’ terrible influence).

It’s fine, really. Perfect, even, if you were judging by Derek’s pre-Stiles standards for shifts – there’s no trouble, everybody does what they’re supposed to do when they’re supposed to do it, and nobody bothers Derek with inane chitchat about how the cookie monster’s real name is Sid, or how on Jupiter and Saturn it rains diamonds, or how vending machines are statistically a bigger threat to humanity than sharks or any other useless, annoyingly entertaining trivia. 

Derek wanted this quiet – craved it, prayed for it, _longed_ for it, for _months._

Now he finally has it, and the silence is deafening. 

It’s a deep, seismic buzzing, like the sound you get in your ears after an explosion or something – noise induced tinnitus, or whatever – only the weird buzzing noise settles itself in Derek’s chest, too, and he _hates_ it. It’s a restless, uncomfortable thing, this ache, ever-present but sometimes simmering at a bruise-like level of discomfort and other times flaring up hotly with an urgent sort of pull that he doesn’t entirely understand (though he’s narrowed the cause down to all-consuming fury, or indigestion - definitely one or the other).

Derek’s knuckles are still a little bruised and scraped from his fight with the wall, which he’s grateful for because it continues to distract him from the ache. If ever there are moments where the ache gets a little much, he presses his thumb firmly into the swollen flesh, and lets the inevitable spike of pain be his focus. 

The rest of the team feel it, too, Derek can tell. They’re a little low, a little lacklustre. Everything is just a little _less,_ without Stiles. 

It’s stupid. They’re stupid. (He’s not stupid, obviously. He’s mad. It’s different.)

So, yeah, his team are stupid, but in the spirit of being the dynamic, proactive leader that he is, Derek decides what they need is a distraction – a morale booster, if you will. A new, shiny thing to fix everything.

He comes up with a great plan. 

An _excellent_ plan. 

Unfortunately his genius at concocting excellent plans goes, as ever, tragically under-appreciated. 

Erica walks into the office on Thursday, applying a final coat of lipstick (in tactical red), and pulls up short, eyeing the team morale booster currently swimming around in the fishbowl on Derek’s desk with extreme derision.

‘What,’ she says, in a tone, Derek feels, of unnecessary judgement, ‘is _that?’_

Derek glances at the small, neon goldfish. ‘It’s a killer whale, Erica,’ he replies dryly. ‘In disguise. Highly dangerous. You might wanna give it some space, just in case.’ 

‘You know you really should have gotten a sea-water fish, if you’re gonna be that salty…’ Erica wanders closer to the desk and pokes at the side of the tank. The fish does not react, because it is a fish. 

‘Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer,’ Derek shrugs.

Erica snorts. ‘Okay then, maybe I should have asked _why_ is that.’

‘It’s the newest member of the team.’

‘Are you…’ Erica blinks. ‘Are you telling me this is a guard fish?’

‘Precisely. That’s why it’s called Fang.’

‘Huh,’ Erica says, perching on the edge of the desk. ‘So, you’ve officially lost your mind, what’s that like?’ 

Derek glares at her. Hard. 

‘You can’t call it Fang,’ she says firmly, unfairly immune to The Glare. 

‘Fine. Then I’ll call it Fish.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘No. Derek. You cannot call a fish ‘Fish’.’

‘Sure I can. It’s elegantly meta.’

‘Jesus,’ Erica sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. ‘You’ve spent way too much time with Stilinski. He’s been rubbing off on you in more ways than one.’

Something bitter and unpleasant bubbles up in Derek’s chest. He folds his arms in a futile attempt to squash it down. ‘You name it, then.’

‘Call it Finderella!’ Isaac shouts from the hallway. 

‘Boyd!’ Erica calls out. ‘Name this fish! And bear in mind that the quality of the sex you have for the _rest of your fucking life_ depends on you keeping me in a good mood!’

‘Fishface.’ Boyd suggests helpfully from where he’s loitering in the doorway. 

Erica looks aghast. Evidently Boyd isn't worried by her below-the-belt threats.

‘Fang doesn’t seem so stupid now, does it,’ Derek says smugly, twirling a pencil between his fingers.

 _‘You’re_ stupid,’ Erica says firmly, which, rude. ‘The fish is clearly called Miles.’

Derek blinks. ‘Um. What.’ 

‘Well it’s a Stiles replacement, right?’

‘No. What? No.’ Derek shakes his head several times for added verisimilitude, because no. 

‘Uh, yeah. Although I’m a little surprised you didn’t get some sort of bird. A cockatoo. Parrot. Something that offers overly loud sarcastic commentary on your day and spends the rest of the time looking in the mirror telling itself how great it is.’

That had been Derek’s first plan, in fact. Damn Erica for always knowing everything. How do girls do that, anyway? Derek directs his glare down at the desk before admitting, through gritted teeth, ‘Didn’t have any at the pet store.’

Erica gives in to a red-lacquered smile. ‘Uh huh. So instead you bought Miles as a focus for your unrequited love.’ 

‘No,’ Derek jerks back a bit, fists clenching against the sting of her words. ‘No. It’s not that. Fuck you. It’s a guard fish. We’re a man short and I figured I’d get something that is just as effective a security guard as Stiles was. Is. Was. Anyway. Voila: Fang.’ 

‘Ha!’ Erica crows, triumphantly, shaking back her blonde curls. ‘So it _is_ a Stiles replacement!’

Derek sighs tiredly. ‘After a fashion, I suppose.’

‘Uh huh,’ Erica says again, all knowing and smug and insufferable. 

Goddamn Erica.

Something in Derek’s expression means that Erica doesn’t dare mention the ‘L’ word in his presence again, but alas, she refuses to be persuaded out of Miles as a name. Miles doesn’t even protest, he just swims around and blows bubbles happily, the traitorous little shit (and yeah, maybe on that point it’s just like actual Stiles).

(And yeah, maybe Derek’s more bothered by the Stiles thing than he’d like to be. Whatever. The fish will fix everything. It’s a fresh, fishy start. A symbol of life going on. A mascot. Something to unite them all as a team. It’s a perfect plan.)

(The fish does not fix everything.)

A few days go by with no word from Stiles, and the ache in Derek’s chest isn’t going away. He drinks a fuck ton of pepto bismol, downing it like it's milkshake, but it’s to no avail. Tums don’t help either, and neither does the weird green herbal slime Lydia insists he drink (‘to regain his digestive equilibrium’) and it’s all very annoying because he’s forced to admit it’s probably the fury, actually, and he doesn’t want it to be because he’s not supposed to fucking care this much.

He decides his over-reaction is not because he gives a damn about Stiles, but because of Peter. He knows it’s dumb macho posturing shit, but Peter has always been such a dick, and the fact that he can waltz in and steal Stiles out from right under Derek’s nose with barely any effort at all… 

Yeah, that’s definitely why Derek is so mad. 

And okay, _maybe_ he’s mad at Stiles, too, because Stiles had been more than happy to be stolen, which, what the fuck. It’s not like they had a _thing_ , not the sort of thing that comes with expectations of each other, no commitments, no strings – but still, they spent time together. What the fuck ever happened to _loyalty._

This is exactly why Derek doesn’t do relationships: people always, always let you down, in the end.

Days pass, but the silence stays just as loud, and the ache stays just as persistent, just as angry.

So when Stiles finally, _finally_ calls, six nights after he walked out with Peter, right before the night shift starts, Derek glares at the screen (where Stiles had programmed in his number as ‘The Bone Phone’ and then laughed at his own hilarity for the better part of ten minutes) and carefully and deliberately hangs up.

He ignores the next call, too, which comes just a few seconds after he red-buttons the first, and he ignores the one after that, and eventually he turns his phone off entirely. 

(Well, okay, maybe he throws his phone at the wall so hard it shatters into pieces, and puts a sizeable dent in the fresh paint and plaster, but whatever. Semantics.)

He feeds Miles a little extra, for being such a good, _quiet_ Stiles replacement. 

He briefs the team as usual, ignoring the persistent ringing of his office phone a few doors away. It’s bound to be Stiles – the timing is too much of a coincidence for it not to be. Derek assumes that Peter and Lydia are done with the audit – and probably Peter is done with Stiles, which is something Derek tries hard not to think about - so Stiles wants back on the night shift. And, frankly, fuck him, because Derek doesn’t need him, and neither do the team. They have Miles now, anyway.

Case in point: tonight. Everything is smooth, everything Is quiet. It’s going perfectly. Sure, they’re only ten minutes in, but it’s been a textbook-smooth ten minutes, so. 

Fuck Stiles.

After several tries, the phone stops ringing. 

Which Derek is happy about. Obviously. Because he’s mad at Stiles. _Mad._

Derek sighs, slumps down in his attack chair, and gets to work on a proposal he’s putting together for motion-activated security lights that link into an upgraded CCTV system. He manages to hit his stride, and when he looks up a couple of hours have passed and he realises it’s past time for their usual midnight delivery, and that Isaac is alone on the warehouse floor, dealing with the driver, and could probably use a hand. It's a constant source of irritation to him that Peter won't okay an increase in budget to allow for a couple of warehouse guys to be kept on after-hours to deal with these twice-weekly deliveries, but Peter insists it isn't worth the money since the driver does the unloading anyway. As it is, it means constant attention from one or more security guys for a couple of hours, and usually they help out with the lifting too since they're not assholes. Stiles was the only one of them who hadn't seemed to mind the time-suck.

He radios down to let Isaac know he’s coming to join him but doesn’t get a response. He frowns to himself, making a mental note to make the team do a refresher course on proper radio etiquette. The quiet follows him like a shadow as he descends the stairs to the main floor of the warehouse. 

He crosses over towards the main loading dock, steps faltering a little when he sees that the truck has arrived as normal, it’s back doors opened wide and the ramp descended, but that Isaac and the driver are nowhere to be seen. 

It’s possible Isaac has escorted the driver to the restroom, but it’s protocol to notify someone else, and Derek hasn’t heard anyone on his radio. He approaches the truck cautiously, and as quietly as he can manage. Everything could still be fine, but something about it feels off to Derek.

It’s this damned silence, again. 

All the hairs on the back of Derek’s neck stand up under the slow chill that crawls up his spine.

Swallowing his apprehension down, he jogs over to the truck, checking carefully to make sure no one’s in the back. The cargo of wooden crates seems untouched. He backs down the ramp, casting his eyes around again for any sign of Isaac, when a flash of bright blue down on the floor by the driver’s side door catches his attention. He checks around the corner, eyes widening when he sees the usual driver crumpled up on the floor, blood blossoming from a nasty gash along the side of his head. Next to him the clipboard Isaac would usually carry lies discarded. 

Derek’s hand reaches for his shoulder comm, fumbling for the button, but it doesn’t seem to be working, all he gets is static and a high-pitched whine. Before he can figure out what's up, there’s a sound in the silence – a rushing, whooshing sound, and a crack. It’s a split second before the pain explodes across the back of his head, searing through his skull. Another whisper of a second later, the world evaporates to black in front of his eyes. 

By the time his sight returns in excruciating pinpricks of light, he’s on his knees – or, no, wait, he’s being held roughly under the arms as someone hauls him on his knees. He blinks hard, trying to get everything to swim back into focus, but his visions shimmers in and out like a particularly frustrating shoal of silverfish. He’s aware of the drag of his shins over the concrete floor, of the thick fingers currently leaving bruises on the tender flesh where his shoulders meet his underarms, and of the pained, heaving grunts that the owner of the cursed fingers is currently emitting. 

He realises with vicious glee that his assailant is struggling with his bulky frame, and tries to take advantage of the moment by arching up and swinging his fist up and back, but his movements are sluggish and unfocused since he hasn’t recovered from the blow to the back of his head. His fist swings wild and wide, and the guy behind him grabs it easily, dropping Derek instantly to the floor as he twists both of his arms back and up between his shoulder blades. There’s a sharp pressure on his lower back – a knee, Derek assumes – and the guy curses under his breath as he fumbles for something. Then there’s a biting line of pain around Derek’s wrists, which he barely has time to register as zip ties before the guy slams down with his knee, winding him.

Bastard. 

Derek scowls grimly. Although his lower ribs ache now, the cold concrete of the floor is blissful temporary relief against his throbbing head, allowing him to marshal his thoughts into some sort of coherency. 

The zip-ties by themselves aren’t really an issue – Derek has practised getting free from those by himself in front of a Youtube video like a hundred times – but the stickiness he feels spreading over his scalp leads him to suspect he’s been pistol-whipped. The presence of firearms makes things a whole lot more problematic. 

The guy starts hauling him again – Derek makes himself as limp and heavy and uncooperative as possible, bittersweet satisfaction spiking through him at the guy’s furious cursing – and Derek gets the chance to glance around and see he’s being taken to the store room. He can’t see Isaac or any of the rest of his team – that is, until the guys drags him across the threshold into the store room, and he finds Isaac, Erica and Greenberg, all on their knees and bound by zip-ties. They’re kneeling in a semi-circle around a couple of guys in standard bad-guy dark clothing and gloves, who have, as Derek suspected, a couple of hand guns pointed lazily at their hostages. The driver is still out cold, and has been plonked, unceremoniously, in the deflated tactical paddling pool that the night shift like to use on break during the hottest months. Somehow the pale pink of the rubber makes the blood dripping thickly down the driver's pale, clammy temple all the more jarring.

Derek's own personal bad-guy (who he plans on punching in the face before the night is out) drags him to the end of the semi-circle and yanks him up so he’s on his knees. No-one says a word. None of the team members seem to be hurt, thank god, although Erica looks mightily pissed off and is glaring daggers at the huddle of bad guys, ferociously enough that at least one - a massive bald dude made of solid muscle - is shuffling nervously on his feet. She bares her teeth, slow and deliberate, and Derek’s pretty sure the guy pees himself a little judging by the uncomfortable shimmy he does as he retreats to the back of the bad-guy huddle. He suppresses a dastardly smirk. He fucking loves Erica. 

He’s pleased to see that Boyd and Scott aren’t there. Hopefully they’ll follow protocol and get help, instead of trying any stupid heroics. Scott, in particular, seems the type to try and fail at stupid heroics. He’s too smiley and shaggy-haired to be a real bad-ass, in Derek’s opinion. He’d probably punch a guy in the face and then apologise profusely and make him a homemade ‘get well soon’ card.

Derek clears his throat, ignoring the rasp of dust from the concrete floor against his dry, raw larynx. ‘What the fuck,’ he demands in his most menacing snarl, ‘is going on.’

‘This all of you?’ One of the bad-guys aims a swift kick at Derek’s stomach by way of punctuation. As far as diplomacy goes, it sucks.

‘Fuck you,’ Derek responds, succinctly. He gets another sharp kick for his trouble. It makes him shrink into himself and cough a bit, but he doesn’t fucking care. 

As his coughing subsides he becomes aware of a strange noise – a low, ominous rumble that echoes through the breeze-block walled room and comes back ten times louder. It takes him a second to realise that it’s coming from Erica, who has trained her blazing gaze on the cowering bad-guy in back and is garnishing her campaign of terror with a feral growl right from her chest. The guy’s eyes grow impossibly wide, and he shuffles close to the door. 

Derek allows his mouth to curl up at the corners. Even through the agonizing pounding in his head and torso, Erica can still make him smile. 

This seems to incense the more bellicose, kick-happy bad guy – and seriously, Derek is going to insert that foot so far up this guy's ass that he has toes for fucking teeth – enough that he draws back in preparation to strike Derek again.

Isaac makes a noise of furious protest, muffled by the rectangle of silver tape that’s been stuck over his mouth, but Derek catches his gaze long enough to shake his head and silence him. He doesn’t want Isaac to take a beating on his account. 

Luckily – or not – the door bangs open and a new bad guy walks in, along with Scott, whose hands are tied behind him and who is sporting an extremely bloody nose. Because of course he is. 

Derek closes his eyes and sighs.

Freaking _Miles_ is doing a better job of guarding this warehouse than his employees. 

(And, okay, _him,_ but Derek’s choosing to ignore that for the time being.)

‘Get your fuckin’ hands _off_ me you fuckin’ douchenoggin!’ Scott grits out at New Bad Guy, who seems to be the head Bad Guy judging by his arrogant swagger and the way the other guys shrink back from him. Head Bad Guy swipes a leg out, almost lazily, and takes Scott’s ankles out from under him so he lands on his face, and yeah, that has to hurt. 

Head Bad Guy smiles in satisfaction at the strangled groan that rips from Scott’s chest. It’s a cold motion that snakes across his face and never reaches his eyes, which makes Derek suspect he might in fact be a psychopath, which, awesome. 

He’s pretty young for a Head Bad Guy/Psychopath – really young, actually, probably barely into his twenties - but then Derek supposes age is just a number when one is in possession of a gun, an ego the size of Venezuela and a stone-cold urge to hurt people. 

‘Hey,’ New/Head/Psycho/Baby Bad Guy says, voice dripping with anger as he glares at the three black-clad guys that Derek is now certain are henchmen. ‘Who damaged the merchandise?’ 

It takes a second for Derek to realise that Baby Bad Guy is talking about _him_. He feels his brow furrow as he processes the words.

Are the bad guys going to sell them or something? Because he seriously doubts anyone would pay a dime for Greenberg. 

Kicky/Douchey/Soon-to-part-ways-with-his-foot Bad Guy mutters vaguely. 

Baby Bad Guy raises one eyebrow and okay, so he’s sort of terrifying considering he’s basically a fetus. 

‘Mess the others up however you want,’ Baby Bad Guy says. ‘But Hale is mine.’

Ah, fuck. Knowing him by name can’t be good. It means Baby Bad Guy wants Derek specifically. He stares at the unfamiliar lines of his face, trying to figure out if he’s pissed him off somewhere along the way, although really, storming a warehouse seems like a bit of an over-reaction to cutting the line at the grocery store or whatever else Derek might have done to cross him in the course of his very mundane life. 

‘Not me!’ Comes a plaintive whine from the semi-circle. 

Derek whips his head around, which is a mistake because it makes pain and pressure slam into his skull on the one side, and blood wells anew from the gash on his head, trickling down his neck, thick and viscid. He swallows the little pained noise that threatens to bubble up from his chest. He refuses to give these bastards the satisfaction. 

The wheedling voice turns out to be Greenberg.

Derek makes a mental note to give Erica a raise every time she steals his shoes from now on. 

‘You promised I wouldn’t get hurt,’ Greenberg whines, low and almost furtive, a sheen of sweat beading up over his forehead under the heat of the accusing eyes of his colleagues. ‘I’m not supposed to be here. I gave you what you wanted, you said you’d let me go. Just give me my money and you’ll never see me again.’ 

Derek’s eyes slide shut. Of course. Greenberg was in on it – probably just let this bunch of bastards walk right on in through the front door, probably told them where all his guys were likely to be. 

It still doesn’t explain what they want, but it makes how they got in a whole lot clearer. 

‘Yeah…’ drawls Baby Bad Guy, dropping easily onto his haunches. ‘Funny thing… I lied.’ He strokes the muzzle of his gun down Greenberg's face, from temple to chin, slow and deliberate. Then, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and says, ‘I do that sometimes.’ Then he smiles his slow, weird smile again.

Greenberg descends into panicked sobs that Derek can’t bring himself to feel all that bad about.

He's also not all that sad when one of the bad guys tapes up Greenberg’s mouth as well.

‘Alright, enough,’ Erica says, wrinkling her nose in Greenberg’s direction. ‘What the fuck do you guys want? There’s no money on site. We have some pretty good cookies in the kitchen, though.’ 

Baby Bad Guy throws her a withering look. 

‘Seriously,’ Erica says brightly. ‘They’re really good. Oaty. Chocolatey. Deeelicious. Come on, what are you, seven, eight years old? You can’t tell me you don’t want a cookie.’

Baby Bad Guy’s upper lip curls back, and in a surprising turn of speed he’s across the room, looming over Erica with her chin gripped way too hard in his hand, forcing her to look up at him. 

‘I would headbutt you in the face right now,’ she murmurs, never breaking eye contact. ‘But I don’t wanna ruin my lipstick. You know lipstick? Like your mommy wears?’ 

Baby Bad Guy snorts and shoves her away from him. 

‘Oh come on,’ she continues to needle, because she’s a glorious fucking asshole like that. ‘You’re just a baby. Way to young to be the real foozle. Tell us who’s behind this and what they want and we can all get outta here with our balls still attached.’ She directs an evil smirk at Wussy-Bad-Guy, who inches so close to the door he’s half way out of it. 

Baby Bad Guy rolls his eyes and then his shoulders, first one and then the other, until they crack. ‘Alright, I’ll play along,’ he says, amusement dripping from his voice. ‘You don’t think I’m old enough to shoot holes in you. I’m happy to prove you wrong. It’ll help pass the time. Pick a number,’ he leans down close to Erica again, cold eyes flicking along the line of them, from the still unconscious driver down to Scott. He pointedly does not include Derek. ‘From one to five.’ He spins his gun lazily in his hand. 

Derek’s heart spins in his chest right along with it. He doesn’t care if he gets hurt, but the thought of any of his team taking a hit fills him with burning nausea. ‘Don’t do it,’ he hisses urgently. ‘Don’t.’ 

Erica tilts her head and squints at them all thoughtfully. ‘I mean…’ she says, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. ‘Which number is Greenberg?’

Greenberg’s protest is no less outraged for being muffled under tape.

Erica raises one terrifying, murderous eyebrow. It’s directed at Greenberg, but it’s enough to make Massive Wussy bad guy just nope right on out of there.

‘Huh,’ says Baby Bad Guy, staring after him. ‘How embarrassing for him.’ He sighs, then mutters, ‘I guess this is what you get when you advertise for goons on Craigslist. No matter, I’ll deal with him later.’ He shrugs and turns back to the team. ‘No, where were we. Ah yes, I was about to shoot one of you. This one…’ He aims his gun squarely at a sickly-pale and whimpering Greenberg’s forehead.

Derek’s pulse hammers in his throat. He may not like Greenberg – may want to do horribly painful things to him for selling them all out like this – but he’ll be damned if he’s letting anyone die at the hands of this sonofabitch baby-faced psycho on his watch. Anyone but himself, anyway. 

He takes a deep breath and, putting all his weight into it, throws himself toward Greenberg, knocking them both to the ground. He lands heavily on one side, winding himself. Pain splinters out through the shoulder that took the brunt of the fall, but at least Greenberg is safe, sprawled out half-beneath him. 

‘Down boy,’ Baby Bad Guy says, amused. His hair flops over his forehead in artfully styled, dark waves. He looks like one of the guys from the Dreamphone game Laura and Cora used to play endlessly back when they were kids, only to his knowledge they never had weapons and an unrepentant propensity for blood-lust. Although come to think of it, it would explain why his sisters were so obsessed with it. Baby Bad Guy cocks his head at him and says, ‘You’ll have plenty of chances to get horribly disfigured later. Right now, I’m only shooting this guy, which might teach him not to play with fire in the future. Really, you could say it’s in his best interests, hmm?’ 

He pushes at Derek with one foot and rolls him to the side like he’s nothing more than a sack of potatoes, then casually pulls back the clip on his gun. Derek grits his teeth like the stubborn idiot he is, and rolls right back on top of Greenberg, who makes a dramatic ‘oomph’ sound as Derek lands on him, which Derek rolls his eyes at because really, this guy can’t even get his life saved without being annoying.

Derek squeezes his eyes shut and braces himself, waiting for a shot, but instead the room is abruptly filled with the dulcet and wholly unexpected sound of Gangnam Style. 

Derek frowns, momentarily thrown. He’d had a sliver of hope he might make it to heaven, but it certainly sounds like this is the stairway to hell. 

He cracks open an eye in time to see one of the surly Craigslist goons slide open his phone sheepishly, cutting off the music. He has a hushed, urgent conversation with whoever is at the other end. 

Yo, T,’ he says, and Baby Bad Guy’s head twists to face him. ‘They can't get into the room with the safe. Needs a fingerprint.’ He nods towards Derek. 'His fingerprint.'

Baby Bad Guy sighs heavily like he's terribly, terribly bored. 'Fine. Get up, Hale.' 

Derek doesn't move. 

Baby Bad Guy slips his own phone from the pocket of his nondescript black jacket, and starts texting. 'Get the fuck up, Hale,' he says, glancing over. 'You know, you don't actually have to be attached to the finger in order for us to open the door with it...'

It occurs to Derek that, while he has no chance of overcoming a group of armed guys, his odds are much improved one on one. He gets to his feet slowly, sore ribs screeching in protest. He sets his jaw, determined not to let it show, and looks quickly around the room, making eye contact with each of his team, silently willing them not to do anything stupid in his absence. Like die. 

Scott has subtly shuffled closer to Isaac, just enough that his ankle is pressed against Isaac's calf. Isaac's eyes are still wide under his curls, but they're just a little less scared. Derek's feelings about Scott warm up a few degrees. They're never going to be BFFs or anything, but Derek can grudgingly admit he's actually a good guy. He doesn't want to leave the team, but he knows this will probably give him the best chance of an opportunity to fight back, so he makes his way to the door in seething silence, aware of the hulking shape of someone – Gangnam Style Bad Guy, he thinks - looming up behind him to escort him. 

He's taken aback by the noise in the warehouse - drilling, banging, echoing shouts - the thick concrete walls of the storeroom must have shielded them from it 'til now. Once they make it to the stairs he can see that there are several guys jimmying open the crates that the warehouse stores, and ransacking the contents. Derek hasn't ever paid too much attention to the contents of the crates, all he knows is that Peter acts as a broker of sorts for art and antiquities for boutique and high-end stores in the larger towns nearby. He assumes that the merchandise is worth a fair amount of money - enough to break into a warehouse for- but as he forces his aching limbs up the stairs, slower than usual because his balance is off with his hands still bound, he can see the warehouse floor spread out below him like a maze, and it's clear that T, whoever he is, has no interest in stealing the stuff. 

Quite the opposite in fact, because they seem to be systematically destroying it, tearing apart frames and smashing vases, taking furniture apart with crowbars and hammers. The floor is covered with sawdust and packing material, and the whole place smells vaguely like a wood workshop; like slightly burned sawdust. The men move up and down the aisles with speed and purpose. 'What are you guys looking for?' Derek asks Gangnam Style, lungs burning under what he suspects is a badly bruised rib. He doesn't get an answer.

The stairs feel interminable and he struggles to catch his breath, so he's lightheaded by the end of the climb, vision swimming before him again.

Gangnam Style and another guy - one with a tattoo splashed darkly across one cheekbone, who was waiting for them at the top of the stairs - half push-half haul him down the corridor towards the office that he'd found Stiles sitting outside not so very long ago. The sudden memory hits him squarely in the solar plexus, powerful and bittersweet. He's not sure if it makes the humiliation of Gangnam Style manhandling him around to grab his ID card and swipe it before he twists Derek's arm at an unnatural angle to press his thumb to the keypad better or worse.

The door clicks open. A hard shove against his shoulder has him stumbling over the threshold, heart pumping too hard still in his chest. He's not at all sure they'll find whatever they're looking for in the safe. In fact as safes go the contents of this one have always been underwhelming, really just lost property and the odd wad of cash here and there, not even enough to keep Wussy Bad Guy in adult diapers for very long. So much of Peter's business is conducted online that it's almost a redundant piece of kit. But hey, who is he to try and argue with these guys - better to let them find out for themselves and hope they don't take their frustrations out on him or his team.

To this end, he dully recites the combination from the place on the floor where they've forced him to sit, propped up against the leg of a desk which they've threaded between his bound hands and back, rendering him immobile. He feels numb, like he's on autopilot. Sure enough, after several minutes of fruitless and increasingly frenzied searching, the safe stands empty and the bad guys are pissed.

Cheek Tattoo grimaces and scrubs a hand through reddish, buzzed hair as he punches something into his cell. 'T, we've searched the safe. They're not here. Nah, I cleaned it out.' He turns and stares at Derek, his gaze making prickles of discomfort pick their way up Derek's spine. 'Alright... Understood.' He hangs up, then addresses Derek directly. 'Theo thinks it's time we called your uncle. He's not usually very co-operative where our organisation is concerned, but this time we have leverage. Where's your cell?' 

Derek closes his eyes so he can roll them unseen. He might have known this was all to do with Peter. 'Sounds like you're already acquainted,' he shoots back. 'Call him yourself.'

'He's not taking our calls, because he's very, _very_ stupid,' Cheek Tattoo says. 'He'll answer if the call comes from you.' He strokes his gun lovingly. Pointedly. 'Where's. Your fucking. Cell.'

'Smashed it earlier,' Derek says grudgingly. 'Work cell's on my desk in the main office.' 

The guy nods once, then cocks an eyebrow at Gangnam Style. 'I'll get it. You better wait here with him 'til Theo gets here.'

Gangnam Style grunts like this is some sort of massive inconvenience, which is fucking annoying because he's not the one on his knees with his hands tied behind his back. 'Sure.'

Cheek Tattoo strides from the room, and just like that, Derek's odds of escaping double.

He looks around wildly for a distraction - he just needs thirty seconds to shuck this table (which weighs a fucking ton, what the fuck) and break free from these infernal zip-ties and he can take this motherfucker down.

'Hey,' he says, jerking his chin towards the miniature refrigerator that hums in the corner of the room. 'Thirsty. Can I have water?' 

Gangnam Style looks thoroughly pissed, but heads for the corner anyway, muttering something bitterly about princesses. Derek doesn't have time to ruminate on the guy's (many) idiosyncrasies, focused as he is on overturning the dead weight of the table. He hunkers down and scrunches up his abdomen, hoping to get momentum when he straightens up, but stops dead when he catches sight of the barest flash of red in his peripheral vision, behind a crack that's appeared between a dingy ceiling tile and the frame in which it sits. Derek slows for a half-second, watching, and sure enough the red moves - increases as the crack gets larger, blood-red filling the entirety of the square as the tile gets moved clean away.

There's more movement that Derek squints to see in the low light - a flash of pale skin, the battered sole of a shoe - and then, like a vision or a dream or a nightmare, a long body unfurls through the gap, lowering itself to the floor. A long body which is most definitely _Stiles'_ long body and jesus, what the fuck, can't a guy be the only self-sacrificing idiot in his own workplace anymore? Stiles drops himself down to land silently on the floor, moving with surprising dexterity and grace. Derek begins to wonder if he might have been hit on the head harder than he'd realised - Stiles _never_ moves with dexterity or grace. 

Stiles' eyes widen when they see him, and he makes what looks like a reflexive motion to come over to him, but instead raises a long finger to his lips and turns towards Gangnam Style. Bile bubbles up in Derek's throat, and he shakes his head violently in silent protest, but Stiles ignores him and proceeds to continue on in his epically stupid decision to take on a nasty fucker twice his size, despite being the most hopeless security guard in the history of ever.

He forgets the stupid table and redoubles his efforts to break the zip ties around his wrists. He's still struggling to get enough momentum, given the pain that lances through the sensitive skin on his wrists when he tries to snap his hands apart. He grits his teeth through it and keeps trying, but he's not fast enough to stop Stiles from fucking _sneaking_ up on the guy like some cartoon robber, tip-toeing on the balls of his feet, elbows tucked into his sides. All he needs is a bag marked 'swag' and an innocent whistle and he'd be right out of a seventies animation. Unbelievably he actually makes it most of the way unnoticed before Gangnam Style notices something's up and turns around. Stiles has the element of surprise in his favor, and takes full advantage of it, whipping the palm of his hand up and out, jamming it into Gangnam Style's side. 

Gangnam Style wheezes out a raw, guttural sound, but isn't felled. He makes a grab for Stiles' outstretched arm but Stiles yanks it back, weaving to the side to aim again, this time for Gangnam Style's exposed neck. Gangnam Style ducks away, and they circle around so Derek can't see much of what's happening, but he can hear the rip of fabric and the harsh pants of breath tearing the air. 

There's the odd flat thud when a fist makes contact somewhere, and Derek's going to goddamn kill someone if he can't get his bonds to break, _now_ because he can't just sit here and listen to Stiles get pulverised. 

But then there's a metallic scraping, and the gun skitters across the floor and lands not far from his feet. He forces himself to his knees to get the best vantage point possible, blood roaring in his ears, to find Stiles still standing, facing down Gangnam Style who looks more murderous than ever. They grapple for a few seconds, but where Gangnam Style is big, Stiles is fast, and he's clever, and... _and he knows exactly what he's doing._ More than that, he's _comfortable_ with it. He moves from an uppercut elbow down into a block with ease, like it's a dance, and Derek's riveted by it, can't do anything but sit and watch Stiles put on his show. 

Only he's still Stiles, so of course, before long, there's talking. 

'Well,' Stiles pants, bouncing on his toes a little. 'It seems we have come to something of an impasse.' He wipes his hand over the back of his mouth and grins at Gangnam Style, who does not grin back. 'Lucky for you, I know exactly how to settle this.'

Gangnam Style snorts in derision, spits blood out onto the floor. 'Oh yeah?'

'Yup!' Stiles some sort of impromptu tap move which ends in finger guns. 'Interpretive dance dance-off!' 

'Fuck off,' Gangnam Style says, raising his fists.

'Yo, I'm serious,' Stiles says, hopping around a little, and Derek can't not look at the car-crash unfolding in front of him. 'What's up, big man?' he taunts, little shit. 'My footworkin' got you scared?'

And yeah, Stiles is definitely going to die, right here in front of him. Derek would face palm if he had use of his hands. 

But then. 

'Hardly,' Gangnam Style sniffs. 'I took ballet and tap classes for two years in middle school.'

'No shit!' Stiles stills briefly, sounding genuinely impressed. 'Who’da thought, huh? Big vicious killing machine like you. You must have some moves, right?'

Gangnam Style sort of blushes and ducks his head, and what the fuck is happening right now? It's like the fucking cookie-as-medicine episode all over again, only with a whole lot more imminent death.

Stiles watches, head tilted. 'Oh bless your heart,' he murmurs, mostly to himself. 'You’re fresh outta the packet, huh?'

'What?' Gangnam Style narrows his eyes.

'Nothing, nothing,' Stiles says breezily. 'You wanna do this, then? Like, I don't have any formal training, but I'm still down to rumble. I got natural talent, baby...' He punctuates his words with a series of pouty little hip thrusts, because he's insane, clearly.

'Who would judge, though?' Gangnam Style asks, because obviously he's fucking certifiable too, obviously Derek is the most well-adjusted one in the room which is not a thing he ever thought would happen.

'Um, how 'bout that guy?' Stiles asks, pointing vaguely off to the side.

'What guy?' asks Gangnam Style, turning to follow the line of Stiles' hand, and that's when Stiles darts forward, aiming a hard, precise blow at the back of Gangnam Style's neck. Gangnam Style turns slowly and glares at him. 

'Huh,' Stiles says, when it becomes clear Gangnam Style is in no way incapacitated. 'You know, I really thought that would work.' He shrugs, and then kicks the guy as hard as he can in the nuts. 

Gangnam Style goes down, purple and gasping.

'Doesn't matter how much I practise that vulcan nerve pinch, I never get it right...' Stiles mutters, leaning over him, putting his hand to his neck to do something Derek can't see, and then Gangnam Style is quiet, still and drooling.

'There there, baby,' Stiles says, patting him down. 'First big job I'd bet. Still got that new car smell and everything.' He straightens up and rolls his head on his neck.

Derek clears his throat.

Stiles looks over his shoulder with a goofy wave and says 'Heeey, Derek,' like he's not some badass Stiles-imposter with ninja skills.

Derek blinks at him rapidly. He has no idea what the fuck is happening. 'What the fuck is happening,' he says.

Stiles takes a few steps towards him. He's soft and familiar in his red hoody and khakis, and doesn't look at all like a guy who just felled six foot square of meathead with his bare hands. 'Oh he's not dead,' he says, motioning towards Gangnam Style with one thumb, all casual like he does this sort of thing all the time. 'Just taking a little disco nap.'

'Oh good,' Derek shoots back flatly. 'Well that answers all my questions.'

Stiles takes a couple more steps, then, his stupid, ridiculous, beautiful face lighting up with a grin like their current situation isn't completely insane. 'Fuck, I missed you,' he says, which makes Derek's pulse pick up. Probably because he's still fucking mad, he remembers. Together, he and Stiles shift the desk leg, and Derek's _finally_ free.

'What the fuck are you doing here?' Derek spits out, bending low and bringing his zip tied hands under his feet to bring them up in front of him, and then slamming his arms down and apart hard in order to break them. The brief exertion feels good, like he's clawing back some control at last. He moves swiftly to the door and locks it so Cheek Tattoo can't come in and suddenly make this a party of four.

'I had my suspicions. And... You didn't answer my calls,' Stiles says in the sort of tone that suggests that's just the prologue of a really long fucking story.

'Well you should have called the police you _idiot,'_ Derek hisses, grabbing for the discarded gun and tucking it into his waistband. 'Please tell me you at least called the Sheriff?'

Stiles shakes his head, shoving his hands into the pockets of his red hoody. 'Derek...' 

'Great. Now we're all fucked. _You,'_ Derek takes him firmly by the shoulder and shoves him back towards the hole in the ceiling. 'Get the fuck outta here.'

'Derek.'

'Don't fucking argue with me, Stiles, just go call the cops, before the other guy comes back. Tell them there's at least eight of them, by my count, and everyone except Boyd is down in the store room at gunpoint.' 

_'Derek.'_ Stiles' voice is calm and clear, and makes Derek pause. 'Derek, I _am_ the cops.'

Derek... stops. Stops moving, stops breathing, stops orbiting the sun. 'Um. _What.'_

Stiles fidgets on his feet, tangling his hands in front of himself. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright and Derek has a very ominous feeling brewing in his gut. 'So, funny story, haha. I'm not actually a college student... I'm a cop, from New York. I've been working here undercover, and... I'm here to save all your butts and hopefully put some very bad dudes behind bars. Uh...' Stiles plasters on a smile, and does jazz hands, (which is the only thing Derek can process as recognizably _Stiles_ right now) 'Surprise?'


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously this is not how serious, for-real police-people handle Bad Situations (or at least, I sincerely hope it isn't), but this is a ridiculous piece of fiction and therefore it follows that the Handling of the Bad Situation should also be ridiculous.
> 
> As ever I am incredibly grateful to you if you're reading, thank you muchly.

Derek stares at Stiles, waiting for the punch line he assumes is coming, and oh is he going to make sure it’s a _punch_ line because they sure as fuck do not have time for stupid jokes right now.

Sure, Stiles is the single most contumacious individual he’s ever met so he supposes the idea of him being a cop is sort of hilarious, but to say his comedic timing is off on this one would be the understatement of the century.

But the room stays silent except for a low drone from the fluorescent strip lights and one of the goon's blissful snoring. Stiles watches him uncertainly for a beat then starts snapping his fingers in front of Derek’s face. ‘Yo Derek, you in there? Did you hear me?’ 

Derek frowns. Usually when Stiles is messing with him there’s a smile that he can’t quite repress catching at the corners of his mouth, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes, but right now there’s none of that, and Stiles is not backing down at all.

Which must mean that Stiles is… ‘Serious,’ Derek says faintly. ‘You’re serious.’ 

Stiles’ hands falter and still. ‘Yeah,’ he replies softly, shoulders tense with apprehension. ‘I’m serious.’ 

The buzz of the lights gets louder until there's nothing but white static noise in his ears, and it takes him a second the realise it isn't the lights at all, it's the pulse of his own blood. He stares at Stiles, stares at the man who has been working with him, sleeping with him, slowly getting under his skin, driving him _crazy,_ and realisation dawns – a trickle at first, but then it crystallises, knife-edged in his chest. He’s been lied to by someone he let close. For months. _Again._

He considers, ever so briefly but very seriously, throwing up. Then he considers, just as seriously and at far greater length, punching Stiles in the nose - an infinitely more preferable option in Derek's opinion.

When he finally forces his voice to work it's a rough, raw scrape. 'You always challenge perps to dance-offs?' It's not the most important question he has, not by a long shot, but it's all he can verbalise right now.

'Oh, no. Course not,' Stiles says with a shrug. 'Sometimes I go with arm wrestling.'

Derek stares at him. 

'I won awards for it in middle school,' Stiles replies lightly, like _that's_ the part Derek was having trouble with. 'I mean I say awards, it was just one of those little plastic trophy things from the dollar store, and I'm pretty sure I only won because Sophie Watson did a whole L'Oreal hair flicking bit that totally distracted Jackson but whatever, it still counts, so it's just whatever works, you know?' He trails off, biting at his lip. 

Derek is silent for what is probably several seconds, but feels like forever. 'What,' he settles on in the end, 'the fuck.'

‘Look,’ Stiles pleads, eyes wide and palms up. ‘I know this is a lot, okay, and I promise, I _promise_ that I will explain everything later, but right now we gotta move, we gotta fix this thing.’ He gestures with one out-flung arm towards the door that leads to the rest of the warehouse. 

Derek blinks. He digs his nails into his palm, letting the sting of it bring his hands back into his consciousness, then his wrists, elbows, arms, shoulders, and all the other parts of himself he must have forgotten in the shock.

Stiles is… right. Cheek Tattoo will be back any second, and he can’t be allowed to raise the alarm.

Derek nods silently. Just because he’s regained some control of his motor functions doesn’t mean he’s capable of finding words. 

‘Okay,’ Stiles says on an exhale, ‘good, cos I have a plan. First you gotta hide and when that other guy comes back I’ll deal with him, I’ll take him out, and then-‘ he rattles off a whole bunch of information, none of which Derek manages to process because he’s too focused on the scuff of shoes in the hall preceding a sudden, vicious rattle of the handle at the door, just once at first, and then more and more impatient. ‘Hey,’ comes an angry voice through the wood. ‘Let me the fuck in, wouldja! I don’t have Hale’s fingerprint out here, what are you, fuckin’ stupid?’ 

Derek lets his body take over, lets his instincts lead him. He’s always been surer of himself physically than emotionally, and he finds his legs move on autopilot as he pads quietly back over to the door, positions himself quickly and carefully, and turns the lock.

‘Derek,’ Stiles hisses, knuckles white where he’s clutching at the back of a chair. ‘What the fuck, dude? Did you just not listen to the plan _at all_ because that my friend is _rude_ and – oh,’ he says, as the doors bursts open and Cheek Tattoo walks right into Derek’s fist and falls to the floor, mouth slack in surprise. ‘Well,’ Stiles clears his throat and smooths his hands down the front of his pants. ‘Yeah, I guess that’ll work, too.’ 

Derek rolls his eyes, then his shoulders. His ribs hurt and his head throbs and his chest aches (though not through any physical injury) but it still felt really fucking good to hit someone. He grasps Cheek Tattoo under the arms and drags him fully into the room, stepping over him to nudge the door closed and re-lock it. The guy is heavy, and close up Derek can smell sweat and the copper-penny tang of blood from a stain on his jacket. The blood is mostly dried – not Derek’s or Cheek Tattoo’s – and it takes everything in Derek not to kill the guy while he lays there. 

When he’s gotten himself under control, he turns around to find Stiles much closer than he had been before, eyes roving over him in concern. ‘You’re hurt,’ Stiles whispers. His lower lip is bitten and sore looking. Derek reminds himself that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t _care._

He scowls, leaning down with a wince to pat down the still unconscious guy. ‘We’re dealing with minutes here, Stiles, can we not do this? You need to tell me what you know. What the _fuck_ is happening?’ 

‘But you-' Stiles starts, reaching out a hand to the blood matting Derek’s hair.

‘Talk,’ Derek insists, ducking out of the way and gripping Cheek Tattoo by the jacket so he can haul him over to join Gangnam Style. He ties them together securely with the zip ties he’s purloined from one of their jacket pockets, and they slump together in one big puddle of bad guy. Gangnam Style seems grateful for the nap actually, drooling a little and smacking his lips as he snuggles into Cheek Tattoo’s side. Derek suspects Cheek Tattoo will be less than pleased to find himself the little spoon when they come to. 

‘Can I just check you over-' Stiles pleads, giving him bambi-eyes, but Derek will be damned if those are working on him anymore. Not ever again. His rage is bedding in, now, achingly familiar. He grits his teeth, champing down on his self-control. Now isn’t the time. 

He finishes securing the two guys, checking them once more for weapons, removing their cells and guns. When he’s done he turns his body towards Stiles, but finds he can’t look at him.

 _'Talk.’_ He grinds out.

‘Alright, fine. But at least let me wrap your side.’ 

‘Fine,’ Derek grits out, balling his hands into fists because he’d forgotten what a stubborn little shit Stiles can be. ‘Do it fast. Talk faster.’

‘Okay,’ Stiles nods, sucking in a quick, nervous breath. ‘Okay, yeah. Yes. So, uh,’ he pauses to strip off his red hoody and yank the white tee he has on underneath up and over his head. Thankfully he has a long sleeved t shirt on below that, though it's fitted enough to cling over Stiles' shoulders and arms. Derek very carefully ignores this. ‘The cliffnotes version,’ Stiles starts, ripping the white tee into long, bandage-like strips, ‘is that your Uncle Peter has, uh, for some years now, in fact, been using this business… this _warehouse…_ to bring black market diamonds into the country. He’s a broker of sorts, buying and selling on behalf of a whole bunch of people.’ His voice is muffled when he tears at the fabric with his teeth. ‘Most recently it’s been a gang out of Los Angeles – they’re pretty new. Really nasty. And Peter… well, I’m pretty sure he’s been skimming money off the top. And man are we talking about a lot of money, here, like, millions. Suffice it to say that they’re not too happy about it.’

Derek inhales sharply as Stiles reaches for his uniform shirt, rucking it up so he can get at Derek’s ribs to begin winding the long fabric strips tightly around his chest. ‘So,’ Derek says, a little breathless from the pain of it, ‘they’re here to get what they’re owed.’

‘I think so, yeah,’ Stiles mutters, his clever fingers tying the ends of the strips together. ‘And to get a little healthy revenge on top, for double crossing them, I’d say.’ 

‘Fuck.’ Derek presses his fingers into his pounding temples. He’s confused, definitely. Betrayed. A few other things he can’t really tease out right now from the twisting rope of nasty emotion in his gut. He feels sick, but more than that he feels so fucking angry. Angry at Peter, angry at Stiles, at _himself_ for being the gullible fuck that people lie to over and over. He taps into the anger, because he’s been there before, knows how to handle it, how to channel it into something more productive. In this case: blunt force trauma. 

Stiles ties the last knot and moves in close to fuss with Derek’s head wound and yeah, no, Derek cannot have his face anywhere close to Stiles’ face right now, can’t be in close proximity to his long eyelashes or his beauty marks or his upturned nose or his entire upper body which is distressingly warm and smells really nice.

‘But the cops are coming now,’ Derek says, yanking away and pulling his shirt back down protectively the very second that Stiles is done. His ribs do feel a little better, bound up like this, but there’s no way he’s admitting that to Stiles. ‘I mean there are more of you, right? You called them?’

Stiles’ expression, which had flickered momentarily into hurt, now morphs solidly into guilt. ‘Well…’

‘Tell me you called the cops, Stiles. Our comms don’t work and neither do the office phones so I’m assuming they messed with the electrics or frequencies or whatever?’ 

‘You’d assume right,’ Stiles says. He sounds impressed, the infuriating, patronising little shit. (Derek doesn't allow himself to secretly preen, because that would be pathetic and he _doesn't care_ what Stiles thinks of him any more)

‘But you can use your cell,’ Derek prods. ‘Their cells work, they’ve been calling each other.’ 

‘Yeeeah,’ Stiles says, shifting uncomfortably. 

‘You haven’t done it?’

‘No, I have, I have,' Stiles nods rapidly, swiping his tongue out over his bottom lip. 'But, uh, they need to get an ARU here. They’ll be setting up a perimeter and they’re… they’re not just gonna come barging in here, Derek.' Stiles screws up his face. 'This is a hostage situation, y’know?’

Derek feels like he’s been punched square in the solar plexus as he’s walloped with that particular reality check because holy fuck, it is. That’s exactly how much he’s managed to fail his team, god damn it.

‘And,’ Stiles says firmly, and Derek latches onto his voice, using it as an anchor to stabilise his thoughts because he can’t afford to go into a self-pity spiral right now, he needs to get his team safe. ‘I have a plan, so. They’re letting me take a stab at it while they get set up. If it fails then they try to negotiate with Theo. Honestly, the dude’s a psycho, so they’ve got about as much chance as a wax cat in hell but whatever, that’s plan B. Plan A is definitely gonna work.’ He shows a lot of teeth when he grins. Suddenly his grin fades and his face turns serious, which is a strange and new look on Stiles. ‘Don’t suppose I can persuade you to make for the perimeter, big guy? Get to safety?’

Derek’s lip curls. ‘Fuck off.’

‘Hey, can’t blame a guy for trying,’ Stiles says around a mirthless chuckle. ‘I’m a cop, y’know, I get paid to do this shit.’ 

‘So do I, moron!’ Derek hisses furiously, anger rearing up in his throat again. ‘I lead the fucking security team, this is literally exactly what I get paid to do!’ 

Stiles holds up his palms placatingly. ‘Alright, alright,’ he soothes, which only makes Derek’s rage burn hotter. ‘Together, then.’ 

Derek rolls his eyes but resists the urge to spit out ‘fuck off,’ again.

Instead he mutters, ‘Whatever. Let’s get going.’ He moves towards the air vents, looking up at the panel Stiles had kicked free and rolls his shoulders, ready to lift himself. 

‘Uh, no, this isn’t Die Hard, dude,’ Stiles interrupts, finally zipping his red hoody back up over his chest. ‘Though if you wanted to take off your shirt at any point I’d be totally on board with that.’

Derek glares daggers at him.

‘Okay,’ Stiles squeaks. ‘I’m gonna take that as a ‘maybe later’. Uh, so basically the air vents are confined to each floor, as a security measure. I came in this way because it’s right under the roof, but it only gives you access to this floor.’

‘So we’ve gotta take the stairs.’ Derek’s heart sinks at the realisation. He doesn’t relish the prospect of taking the stairs; the open metalwork and exposed position of them leaving them very little room for stealth. As soon as someone on the ground floor noticed them they’d be sitting ducks. ‘We’ll be target practice.’ 

‘Obviously,’ Stiles’ voice is laced with a hint of frustration now. ‘Hence the plan.’ 

‘Run the plan by me again,’ Derek says, and Stiles snorts indignantly, but then one of the guys – Gangnam Style – twitches a little and groans, and Derek and Stiles both freeze.

Gangnam Style mutters, ‘Mmm, s’happy pillow time…’ before snuggling deeper into Cheek Tattoo, and Stiles coughs a laugh and murmurs, ‘Yeah I feel ya buddy,’ but both Stiles and Derek know their clock is ticking their already limited time away. 

‘You know what,’ Derek says, watching as Gangnam Style starts to drool onto the exposed skin of Cheek Tattoo’s arm. ‘Maybe skip the recap and just go right to step one?’

‘Yeah, good thinking.’ Stiles makes for one of the windows and produces a small, sharp implement from somewhere about his person, gouging at the hinges until something pops. He starts to crank the window open wider than the frame usually allows for, the night air washing in, cool and damp and soft against Derek’s overheated skin. Stiles turns and scoops up the guns Derek took from the unconscious heap of dickfaces, and offers one to Derek by the hilt. ‘Want one of these?’ 

‘Don’t you?’ 

‘Nah,’ Stiles pulls his lower lip between his teeth in something like embarrassment. ‘It’s better if I don’t have one.’ 

That’s… not exactly reassuring. 

‘Okay…’ Derek frowns. Isn’t Stiles supposed to be a cop? Though so far he’s proven himself to be an unconventional cop in every other aspect of the role, Derek supposes.

He considers the gun that Stiles holds out to him for a half-second before shaking his head no, his mind full of metal shelving and breeze-block walls. ‘Too much risk of ricochet down there.’ 

Stiles shrugs. ‘Fair enough.’ He removes the magazines from both guns and checks for any bullets in the chambers, hands working so deftly it’s clear he knows exactly what he’s doing. Derek can’t tear his eyes from the paleness of his skin against the sleek blackness of the weapons. Stiles disassembles both guns in less than sixty seconds, and shoves the magazines down the back of a filing cabinet. Then he throws the guns out of the window into the darkness of the night. They’re high up enough that Derek can’t hear them when they hit the ground. 

Then Stiles turns the guys’ cell phones off and tucks them up into the ceiling panel, before pulling the panel back in place after him. 

Stiles moves fast, so precise and purposeful that it makes Derek’s head spin a little. 

‘So the first port of call would of be the fire escape. Why,’ Stiles murmurs as he jumps back down lightly from the desk, ‘did you have to put the safe at the opposite end of the corridor to the fire escape?’

It’s a rhetorical question, but Derek can’t stop himself from muttering, ‘Because shitheads use fire escapes to break in and steal things.’ 

‘No kidding.’ Stiles grins as he crosses the room swiftly and cracks the door, checking carefully out in the hallway. ‘I can’t see who might be down there.' He chews on his lower lip. 'I'm not willing to risk you. Um, _it,'_ he quickly corrects, his cheeks flooding with colour. 'I'm not willing to risk it. As in, either of us. Um. Anyway. No worries.’ He cracks his knuckles and slants Derek another smile. ‘Gives me the chance to get creative.’

Then he slides most of himself through, just leaving his foot to prop the door open. There’s a low, dull sort of scrape and a dragging noise, that makes Derek’s heart constrict in his chest, sure they’re going to be discovered, but then Stiles is back, with an armful of the fire hose that’s stored on a reel just outside the door.

It’s thick, heavy stuff, so the rest he hauls behind him, the metal coupling that attaches it to a tap skittering along at the far end. Stiles heaves the mass of rubber tubing over towards the window, pausing to lock the door behind him. Then he wraps the far end of the hose around the heavy desk leg two or three times, and wedges it firmly between the drawers, and Derek has no idea what the hell is going on but it seems like nothing good.

He watches, two parts fascination and three parts horror as Stiles pulls the window open to its full arc, and clambers up onto the sill, wrapping the soft material of the firehouse around his waist and tying it into some sort of complex knot. The rest of the hose lies where Stiles dumped it on the floor. It reminds Derek of a nest of serpents, like the ones that are roiling in Derek’s stomach, and all Derek can do is stare at Stiles uselessly, and wish he’d listened to the stupid plan. 

Stiles grins at Derek then, standing on a window-ledge four stories up, tied to a bit of rubber, his eyes lit up just as brightly as the stars behind him. Then he says, conversationally, like he’s asking what sort of eggs Derek likes, ‘Follow me down?’

He’s brave and crazy and beautiful, and if Derek wasn’t so fucking furious with him he thinks, just for one bright, brilliant millisecond, that he might just follow him _anywhere._

But then the cold night air brings him back to reality and all Derek can say is _‘Down?!’_ incredulously, which sparks up Stiles’ grin even brighter.

And then Stiles disappears over the edge. 

Derek makes a mental note that Stiles is no longer to be in charge of plans in any capacity. Ever. 

The hose unspools in rapidly for several seconds, still going by the time Derek makes it to the window to lean out over the edge. He sees the top of Stiles’ head a couple of floors below, Stiles’ body jerking as the fire hose reaches its limit.

Stiles is a fucking lunatic, but he doesn’t appear to be dead. 

His face turns upwards, just white flashes of teeth and eyes in the darkness. ‘I’m Spiderman, dude!’ he hisses gleefully, bouncing on the hose a little, before disappearing in through a window below. 

So, yeah, definitely not dead, but Derek’s mad as hell and two seconds away from a heart attack and Stiles is still being so damn _Stilesy,_ so the Stiles-being-dead situation could turn on a dime, as far as he’s concerned.

It dawns on Derek that this means it’s his turn now, for _fuck’s sake,_ Stiles. 

He glances around the room and comes to the grim realisation that he doesn’t have a better plan, so as soon as the hose goes lax and he can tell it’s not bearing Stiles’ weight anymore, he grits his teeth and hops up to crouch on the windowsill. 

The plastic sill is smooth and cool beneath his fingertips as he looks out into the yawning darkness below him.

This is madness, Derek knows. He's a few floors high (though it's not so much the heights as the depths that concern him at this exact moment in time), and he's actually considering trusting his life to nothing but a bit of flaccid rubber and his meagre residual faith in Stiles. What the fuck. The smooth rubber casing of the hose is less than ideal for abseiling and also Stiles is an idiot, so it seems highly like this plan will end up in a death that is both painful and humiliating. His sisters are going to kill him if he dies doing something this stupid.

And yet. Stiles did it. And if he doesn't do it too, Stiles will be so fucking smug, and Derek will be damned if that arrogant little shit will get one over on him. So he ignores the tympanic beat of his heart in his ears, easing his weight out and over the sill, and uses the balls of his feet to feel his way down. His breath catches a little when the soles of his shoes slip against the glass of windows. He glares at the offending shoes, carefully wiping one sweat-slick palm at a time on his shirt and then taking a firmer hold of the hose. He glances down and realises he’s halfway down the building, and he's nothing if not stubborn as fuck, so he grinds his teeth and carries on, hoping the desk holds his weight long enough for him to make it to whatever life-threatening situation Stiles has in store for him next.

Eventually, after about a thousand years, there’s a hand grabbing for his foot, guiding him to the open ground floor window, and he has to let go and just fall the last few feet. Years of martial arts training prepare him to land reasonably well, which, judging by the way Stiles is limping ever so slightly, is not true for Stiles. 

He’s secretly, viciously, pleased. Not-being-Spiderman is clearly karmic retribution for being a lying bastard. 

‘I checked this room earlier and the windows were locked,’ is all Derek says, glancing around the locker room they’ve ended up in. It’s dark, the metal lockers lining the room bouncing every little sound back at them tenfold, and it smells strongly of feet. There are no windows in the interior wall but the door opens directly out onto the far side of the warehouse floor from the storage room. ‘Checked it myself.’ 

‘Scotty opened one for us,’ Stiles says, making his way to the door. He glances over his shoulder at Derek and beams, all carefree, like this is all some sort of jolly Hardy Boys adventure. ‘Got him caught, but he still did it, glorious motherfucker that he is.’

‘What were you two face-timing or something when all this was going down? The fuck?’

 _‘He_ answered my call,’ Stiles says, throwing Derek a pointed look, which okay, fair. 

‘Well he shouldn’t have had his cell on him during work hours,’ Derek says sniffily, even though he knows it’s a stupid thing to say. 

‘You wanna run back upstairs and grab the paperwork to write him up for it?’ Stiles murmurs, pressing his ear to the door that leads into the main warehouse. 

Heat creeps up the back of Derek’s neck. He crosses his arms in front of his chest to hide the way his hands want to shake from the ascension of anger and adrenaline. ‘You know that thing with the hose could’ve gotten you killed.’

‘That’s life, Der,’ Stiles says mildly, easing the door open just a touch. ‘No-one makes it out alive.’ 

‘Doesn’t mean you should be that fucking reckless.’ Derek aims for coolly dismissive but comes off more in the realm of petulant and sulky. Great. He clears his throat and shuffles closer to try to see through the sliver of gap.

‘You did it too,’ Stiles replies, a hint of a laugh in his voice. ‘And anyway, now isn’t the time for careful and well thought out actions, now is the time for idiotic and thrilling heroics.’ He waves an arm around dramatically to illustrate his point, accidentally smacking Derek in the chest. 

Derek takes a pointed step backwards. ‘Idiotic is right…’

Stiles pulls a face and then, clearly aiming to fully live up to his ‘idiotic’ mantel, noses right up to the edge of the door, sucks in a deep breath and makes the _fucking hippo noise._

Derek stares at him, aghast, because fuck the hose, now _this_ is going to be the stupidest possible way for him to die. And Stiles won’t even be alive to answer to his sisters.

Stiles makes the idiotic, insanely loud hippo noise again and it rings out clear across the warehouse, and all the other noises grind to a halt, and fuck it, Derek’s going to kill Stiles himself. 

Luckily the broadness of the sound and the size of the warehouse means that it echoes around, making it impossible for anyone to actually locate them because of it, though they certainly must now be aware of the presence of someone – or something - somewhere among them. 

Stiles has his ear pressed to the gap in the door, listening intently. Derek wonders wildly if Stiles is actually an entirely different species to the rest of them, and has somehow evolved some sort of echo-location based on honking like a fucking hippo. Maybe right now, inside his head, he’s mapping out the location of all the team members right now, figuring out where the gang’s weak spots are and how many weapons they’re packing…

Or maybe he’s just a fucking lunatic and Derek’s completely fucked.

He looks at Stiles, in his battered chucks and bright red hoody, and thinks, yeah. It's probably that.

But then, against all odds, another faint hippo noise catches at the edge of his hearing, echoing out over the warehouse from someone who isn’t Stiles. 

Stiles grins. ‘Atta boy, Scotty,’ he mutters, sotto voce. ‘Alright, it’s all set. We just gotta wait for sasquatch there to move his ass,’ at this he tilts his head slightly, and Derek squints to see a particularly large, hirsute goon loitering ten or twelve feet from the door, ‘and then we move our asses.’

‘Wait, you’re telling me that noise actually _means_ something?’

Stiles slants a withering look at him. ‘Of course it does. We’re not _stupid.’_ He peeks through the sliver of gap, but it seems the guy hasn’t moved because he sags back a little against the door frame. ‘Scott and I went to cop school together. Graduated together, too. Been beat cops in New York the last few years. They let us partner up in the end ‘cause Scott’s the best at handling my, uh, idiosyncrasies.’

Irritation burns anew in Derek at the reminder of just how much Stiles has lied. He has to make a concerted effort to think around the smoke that pours off it, clouding his thoughts and smudging his focus. ‘Scott’s here undercover too?’

‘Sorta.’ Stiles fidgets, shuffling his feet and shifting his weight around like he’s full of too many thoughts to stand still. It’s frustrating to feel like he only has part of Stiles’ attention, as he watches Stiles’ eyes rove around the room. ‘He’s actually working out his notice doing this,’ Stiles says. ‘He’s moving back home to take some veterinary courses, he wants to work with police dogs. He’s just doing this to watch my back.’

‘Okay…’ Derek nods slowly. ‘And why are _you_ doing this? What the hell do a couple of New York beat cops care about anything that happens here?’ 

Stiles twists his fingers together and sucks his lips in like he’s trying to keep a hold of himself. ‘I… It’s not about the diamonds,' he says grimly. 'Not for me. I want Theo.’

The way he says Theo’s name, like he’s carving it out of ice, the way he spits it out so it skitters into the space between them, catches Derek’s attention. ‘It’s personal, then?’

‘As it gets, yeah.’ Stiles sets his jaw grimly. ‘He shot my dad.’ 

And okay, this Derek understands. He understands bitterness and anger and the burning need for revenge, so much so he can almost rationalise away all the lies and deception. He probably would have done the same thing, he thinks. 

‘Your dad…’ Derek hesitates, unsure he really wants to know the answer to the question he’s about to ask. ‘Is he…’ 

‘He made it.’ Stiles' eyes flash over to him. ‘Touch and go for a second, but he’s a fuckin’ badass. And I wasn’t here, I was all the way across the fucking country and I couldn’t do anything. I thought by the time I made it to the hospital I might be too late.’

Derek recognises the helplessness in Stiles' voice, is achingly familiar with loss, and his heart can't help but resonate with Stiles' own, but the unknown facts still far outweigh the known feelings.

'Once he was out of the woods I had to go back to New York,' Stiles murmurs, one eye trained on the door. 'But I couldn't just sit there and so nothing, and the sheriff's department were getting nowhere. So, I tracked him down.'

'From New York?' Derek asks, grudgingly impressed.

'Yeah,' Stiles says with a shrug, like it's no big deal to have achieved what the local police couldn't despite being thousands of miles away. 'From what I can tell from my research, Theo's always been disturbed, always looking for a like-minded crowd to run with. Never found one as bloodthirsty as he is until he met the Doctors. He doesn't give a shit about the money, the girls, none of that. He just likes to hurt people. And they give him free reign. I was about to turn all my info over to my bosses, but then I heard from a contact that the Doctors were moving diamonds and were using Peter's company to do it. It was the first solid lead I'd had, and more than that - I knew Lydia worked here. And Jackson, and Danny. And this kid is so fucking dangerous and I couldn't just sit and do nothing, not again. Before I knew it I'd booked a flight back and had convinced Scott to go along with my heroic plan...' He flashes Derek a nervous, twitchy grin.

'Lydia knew, all this time?' Derek asks, stomach sinking under the weight of fresh betrayal.

Stiles winces, chewing hard at his lower lip. 'And Jackson, and Danny. Lydia set me up as part of your team. I tried to convince her to leave. She tried to convince me to stay in New York. In the end she had to give way to my sheer pig-headedness. I knew I had to be here if something went down, I can't - he already hurt my dad. Lydia is - she's like family.'

'So you came and set up here without even running it by your superiors,' Derek surmises. 

Stiles inclines his head. 'It's fair to say I won't be in the running for employee of the month. The only reason I'm not out on my ass is because I agreed to let Matt be a handler of sorts. They didn't find out 'til I'd already started here, they couldn't pull me out and send someone else without it looking suspicious. They had to let me do my thing.'

'And that included doing me,' Derek says acidly.

'Of course not!' Stiles protests. 'You weren't any part of the plan. I figured out in about seven seconds you knew nothing about the diamonds. If Matt had found out about us I'd have been fired on the spot. I never...' Stiles looks up at the ceiling, in case the words he's searching for are up there, floating around waiting for him to pluck them from the air. 'God, Derek.' He runs his hands over his hair, an agitated contrast to the softness of his voice when he says, 'I never planned for you.'

Derek doesn't really know if that's good or bad, but Stiles is gazing at him with a keen-eyed intensity that makes the back of his neck heat up. He opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by a particularly loud scraping noise out in the warehouse.

Stiles startles a little, then turns to peer through the crack in the door again. ‘We need to get over there, to the loading bays. You with me?’

Derek thinks about loss and anger and revenge, and he’s still fucking mad at Stiles for lying to him all this time, but he _gets it._

‘Alright,’ Derek says, against his better judgement since he still doesn't know what Stiles is planning to do. ‘I’m in.’

‘Yeah? Okay then, big guy. Let’s do this.’ Stiles opens the door just wide enough to slip through it, turning sideways to fit his shoulders through, and Derek follows right after, trying to stay low. 

The goon has gone, and Stiles sticks to the wall around the edge of the main warehouse floor, moving slowly and smoothly. Derek stays in his wake, trying to stay quiet, brickwork to their right and metal caging or tall wooden crates to their left. From within the maze of crates and pallets he can hear the sounds of crates being wrenched open and ransacked, things crashing and smashing, and the low call of voices.

They move unnoticed for a few minutes, Derek listening hard for any sign of his team, or that the guys upstairs have been found. He’s so focused on straining to make sense of the sounds that he doesn’t notice the solid guy with buzzed hair until he rounds the corner, appearing from between two crates, eyes narrowing when he sees Stiles, frozen in front of him. 

‘Hey,’ Stiles says, light and bright enough to make the guy’s hand hesitate in its path to his gun. ‘Have you met my buddy Derek?’

The guy turns just in time for Derek’s clenched fist to hit him right where his chest meets his throat. He stumbles back, winded, but flings out a leg, taking Derek’s ankles out from under him.

Derek falls backwards but gets his hands behind him, pushing up hard so he bounces back onto his feet. It’s fairly smooth considering how badly his ribs ache – he must be largely running on adrenaline now, he supposes – and he thanks his stars his haymaker caught the guy in the neck otherwise he’d probably be raising the alarm right now. 

His body reacts on autopilot, falling back into the moves he’s drilled himself on for years. He falls down into a rough crouch, eyes flicking to Stiles when he sees Buzzcut Guy mirror his stance. He feints to the left, keeping it obvious enough that Buzzcut moves to his left too, supremely smug until Stiles moves into the space Derek leaves for him and smoothly smacks Buzzcut Guy’s head into the wall. 

A look of deep chagrin flickers over Buzzcut Guy’s face, his mouth puckering into an offended sort of pout, and then he passes out. Stiles dusts his hands off on his pants, breathing hard and meets Derek’s eyes. ‘Okay?’

Derek just nods, swiping the back of his hand over his face and grimacing slightly at the brackish, coppery taste of sweat and dried blood the motion leaves on his lips.

‘Alrighty then,’ Stles whispers. ‘Onwards.’ 

Luckily the rest of Theo’s guys are creating enough noise and chaos that their brief scuffle goes unheard – or maybe Derek’s heart is beating so loudly now that no one in a five mile radius can hear anything else. Either way, Stiles and Derek start to move again – this time a little faster, still hugging the edge of the warehouse. 

When they reach the edge of one of the loading bay doors, which is halfway open, revealing orange fluorescent outdoor lights splashed raucous against a navy sky, Stiles pauses. They duck down behind some metal caging, Stiles purposeful and Derek uncertain, the drag of his breath aching against his sore ribs. He wonders if Stiles means to try and make a run for it, but knows he wouldn’t go without Scott. The store room that holds the rest of the security team is on the opposite side of the warehouse floor, so their reason for lurking by this particular door isn’t especially obvious. Derek sits back on his haunches, back pressed against the cold grid of the caging, and is still trying to remember what the plan is when Stiles pulls out a book of matches.

Derek can do nothing but stare as Stiles carefully breaks a match from the pack and lights it, using it to set fire to the rest, and it’s right around then that Derek remembers his earlier promise to himself to never let Stiles be in charge of plans.

‘What the fuck, Stiles,’ he croaks out, rising up in an aborted attempt to make a grab for his hand, but Stiles has already twisted to face the bay door, arm drawn back. 

'Trust in the plan, dude,' Stiles whispers, eyes still focused on a point somewhere beyond the half-open door.

‘Stiles,’ Derek hisses urgently, eyes locked on the burning bundle, ‘Stiles, _no…’_

But Stiles ignores him, flinging the book of matches towards the opening, and now watches its flaming trajectory, lips moving silently as if he’s praying. It follows a flickering arc outwards into the yard, and comes to rest right in the middle of the cage they use to store the canisters of gasoline to power the fork-lift trucks they keep on site. Stiles fist-pumps in triumph.

It’s something of a miracle that Stiles’ aim is true, and its even more miraculous that the matchbook is still alight even after its flight through the air, but even so Derek doesn’t understand what Stiles expects to happen. The gasoline is all safely stored in metal canisters, and sure, they don’t encourage open flames nearby but neither is it so sensitive that a warm breeze will set it off either. 

But Stiles, as with everything else today, must know something Derek doesn’t. 

He turns his head, rapidly, and says, low and guttural, ‘Derek. Get down.’ 


End file.
